


Felix Culpa

by vanityofvanities



Series: Felix Culpa and Associated Works [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Cunnilingus, Evolving Tags, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff (eventually), Group Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Oral Sex, Rape, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 210,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanityofvanities/pseuds/vanityofvanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke hands Fenris over to Danarius and then, overcome with guilt, tries to make amends for what she's done. Complications ensue when she begins to develop feelings for Fenris, who no longer has any memory of her or what she's done. (Contains dub-con/non-con)</p>
<p>The story continues through the end of the game and shortly thereafter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wounded Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work will be predominantly 3rd person. The first chapter, however, is Hawke's internal monologue.

It has occurred to me that I might not actually be a very good person. Yes, I have done good things. I have done more than my share of good things, to be honest. I’ve slain demons, vanquished blood mages, and even bashed in the Arishok’s skull. Throughout Kirkwall, I am widely recognized as a hero. I’ve got them all fooled, I guess. Even Varric seems to have cast me as the selfless hero. I play the part well, I suppose. If you do enough good, then people begin to suspect you of actually being a decent human being. That’s pretty naïve of them, really.

Everything I have done, no matter how benevolent it may have seemed, has been for my own benefit. When I first came to Kirkwall, I would have had to be a fool not to recognize the threat that all the templars posed to my well-being. And, if I had missed it, then my pain-in-the-ass brother would have done everything in his power to remind me just what an inconvenience my Maker-given magic has been to the entire family. And it is an inconvenience. A year spent with that bitch smuggler and then all the ages we had to spend breathing in the piss-poor scent of Lowtown. But while Carver was busy complaining, I was busy working to change our lot in life. That’s just what I do. Above all, I wanted to ensure my freedom. Freedom can be bought and sold just like anything else. Get enough money, enough power, enough fear… and you’re finally free to live the sort of life that you deserve.

I’m a brave person. I’m a strong person. I’m proactive and clever and more than a little bit revolutionary. But I’m not good. I am only very good at _pretending_ to be good.

When Danarius came to the Hanged Man, being good would have served absolutely no conceivable purpose. I’m no fool. I may be a lot of things, but I am in no way talented enough to take down a magister. My father told me of Tevinter when I was young. I dreamed of being a magister. I have lived my life in awe of their power and their freedom. Of course, I kept that to myself whenever I was around Fenris. What possible purpose could it have served to tell him how fervently I had once hoped to flee to Tevinter with Bethany in tow? All that would have done was earn his ire and, I am sure, a very annoying lecture. Of course, it would have delighted Anders.

Danarius wasn’t exactly what I expected a Tevinter magister to be. For one thing, he wasn’t very attractive. Not that I strictly expected all magisters to provide me with fresh masturbatory material, but I expected him to at least have mastered the art of cultivating stylish facial hair. Instead, I was faced with a middle-aged man with a scraggly beard and a general lack of eroticism. This is not to say that he was without a certain strange sensuality. I couldn’t fail to notice the way he looked at Fenris. The way Fenris reacted to Danarius’ lingering stare. The way Danarius’ words—the subtle implications—elicited such a violent reaction from his former slave. That’s what’s been weighing on me more than anything else.

Anders doesn’t understand it. In all fairness, I haven’t really made a concerted effort to explain myself to him. In the Hanged Man, he wasn’t at all put off by the fact that I was handing over Fenris. Fenris: a man who served beside us all these years, loyally fighting at my side. A man who asked for my help. A man who trusted me with his life, his family, and his freedom. And I betrayed that trust. Anders didn’t care and, to be honest, I didn’t think I would care either. I never thought that it would come to this.

The nightmares come almost every night now. It’s odd not to be featured in my own dreams; I’ve gotten so used to thinking and dreaming only of myself. Now it’s just Fenris. Fenris as he was described in Danarius’ last letter: docile, submissive, servile. I’m shocked that my unconscious mind has been able to conjure that vision because, when I am awake, that sort of Fenris is utterly unimaginable. Still, in sleep I see him curled at Danarius’ feet like a damn dog. I see them both stripped bare and Fenris’ dark skin alive with the subtle glow of those twisting lyrium markings. I see Danarius extend his hand, gently petting Fenris’ head. And Fenris presses gently into Danarius’ palm, eyes closing, and a slight sigh escaping from his throat.  _The lad is quite skilled, isn’t he?_  In flashes it comes to me, quick and torturous. Fenris wrapping his lips around Danarius’ hardening length; Fenris bent over the edge of a bed, taken roughly with no care given to preparing him; Fenris crying out in mingling pain and pleasure.

I don’t know why it bothers me. I can’t ask anyone. No one has mentioned it to me and, from what I gather, that means no one wants to talk about it. Not even Varric, ever the talker, has said a damned word. Are they scared of me now? Are they scared of what I might be capable of doing to them? Because I’m a little scared of myself.

I might not be a very good person. I am selfish. I am conceited. I am egotistical, excessively violent, and I am a willful, gleeful murderer. But I’ve never felt like a monster before. I have done so many things that would horrify a lesser person. Why does this bother me? Why this time? Why this man? I can’t ask anyone. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want their scorn and I don’t want their pity. But I can’t keep living like this. I can’t stand feeling this way.

I remembered something the other day when I woke. Though Anders had pulled me close to him in the night and though his body was warm and pleasant, I still found myself shivering. I pressed closer to his body, trying my best to enjoy his proximity and his gentle, sweet breath falling across the nape of my neck. But, as I closed my eyes, I was taken back to an afternoon on the Wounded Coast. A lovely place, really, when the air isn’t tainted with the scent of burnt Qunari flesh. Poor Ketojan.

It’s Anders’ voice that I hear first in my suddenly surging memory.  _“Did you ever think about killing yourself?”_

_“I could ask you the same thing.”_  Even though it’s only in my foolish mind, I still feel that odd, rushing, acidic clenching in the pit of my stomach. Is it guilt? It feels vaguely reminiscent of what I felt when Bethany died. What is that?

_“I’m serious. To get out of slavery, to escape Danarius… don’t tell me you never thought about it?”_

_“I did not. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.”_  Always such certainty in his voice. How does he speak now that he is a slave once more? Does he speak at all?

_“You… believe that?”_  Anders: my dear, sweet skeptic.

_“I try to. Some things are worse than slavery.”_

_“Some things are worse than death.”_

And then I couldn’t stand lying in that bed a moment longer. Carefully, I extricated myself from Anders’ arms. He groaned slightly in protest, but I believe that he continued to sleep relatively soundly. I couldn’t help envying him.

I’ve been thinking about that thread of a memory that, through some odd quirk of my brain, has been preserved to torture me. I’ve been thinking about it and I think I’m beginning to understand why I feel at all terrible about this whole business with Fenris. I’ve doomed him. If it were me—if the templars took me and confined me to the tower—I would kill myself. According to Anders, that’s the most common form of death in the Circle. Yes, I fear the Maker. But, to my mind, being robbed of freedom, being robbed of liberty and the right to live and breathe free… that would be worse than death. Fenris won’t even have that escape. I have doomed him to a life with Danarius. I have condemned him to a lifetime of slavery and suffering. He’ll grow old on a leash wearing a Saarebas collar. His skin will sag, lyrium markings wrinkling along with his aged flesh. And then, when he is of no use, his body will be torn apart and the lyrium will be harvested. I have done this to him. And I feel guilty. And I can’t change it. I can’t fix it. And I can’t live with it.

Which, I suppose, is how I came to be in this position. Still, there are worse ways to die, I think. The air out here on the Wounded Coast is cool and it smells of the ocean. As I close my eyes, feeling the wind against my exposed skin, I feel light and free and better than I have felt in months. Even as my toes curl over the edge, I am not afraid. I almost look forward to falling; I’ve never flown before. It should be interesting. Maybe I’m not such a bad person after all. Maybe not too self-involved. Maybe not so beyond redemption. I have sinned and I will pay for what I have done with my life.

…And while my bloated corpse swells with seawater and the fish begin to peel away my skin with eager mouths, Fenris will sit, docile and still, at Danarius’ feet. He’ll live on while I find the release of death.

No. This is wrong. This is all wrong. I can’t do this. Maker, why am I here? It’s too far to fall, the slightest gust of wind could push me over, what am I thinking? A few steps back and I am out of harm's way, though my heart is beating now and, for whatever reason, I am afraid for my life. Funny that I should fear for something that, just moments ago, I was willing to cast away.

But I know now what I have to do. I can’t wallow any longer and I can’t die. I have to repair what I’ve done.

I have to save Fenris.


	2. Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about an established relationship between Anders and Hawke.

> _“Though you’re still her man_  
>  _It seems a long time gone_  
>  _Maybe the whole thing’s wrong_  
>  _What if she thinks so but just didn’t say so?”_  
>  _-_ Clementine, Elliott Smith

Anders was beginning to think that it may have been a mistake to move in with Hawke. On the one hand, her mansion was infinitely better than the squalid depths of Darktown. On the other hand, their constant proximity seemed to have shifted the dynamic of their relationship. Before they were so intimately situated, Hawke had always seemed cheerful and vibrant. True, there were times when there had been something distant and strange lurking behind her amber eyes, but he had always assumed that, with time, she would allow herself to become more vulnerable with him. Instead, she had become more withdrawn. When she spoke, there was often an edge of bitterness that had not been there before. All too often, she leapt into violence without even attempting to find a peaceful resolution. It was odd and new and yet Hawke seemed to have slipped so effortlessly into the role that he wondered if there had always been that anger and violence lurking beneath her pacifist façade. Anders couldn’t pinpoint when exactly the shift had occurred. He knew that it wasn’t his moving in that had changed things, but it still felt as if there might be some correlation.

When their relationship was good, it was very good; when it was bad, it was a dismal, bleak hellscape that left him exhausted and miserable. Lately, the bad seemed to be outweighing the good, but Anders wasn’t willing to abandon Hawke over something as trifling as that. He loved her, after all, and the thought that she might not be worth the trouble never occurred to him. Still, he knew that Hawke was also aware of the tension between them. She was away from the mansion more often these days and she rarely invited him along with her unless she anticipated having a great need for a healer. She often failed to tell him where she was going, but she had never snuck off in the middle of the night before. That was new.

When he woke and found Hawke missing, Anders freed himself from the sheets and wearily crawled out of their bed. He had been sleeping bare, as always, and it took him a moment to find his trousers. Just hours ago, Hawke had torn those clothes enthusiastically from his body. Anders had been hammering out some of the finer points of his manifesto in the library when Hawke had entered the room. She always walked with a quiet tread and, though he could scarcely hear her, he found himself fully aware of her presence. It was like that sometimes; she radiated a heat and a power that he could feel the moment she came into a room. Anders felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up as he placed his quill to the side.

“Anders,” she had purred, already behind him. He closed his eyes, lips curling into a smile as she brushed his loose hair away from the side of his neck. “Always so busy,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his jawline.

“Never too busy for you.” He rolled his head to the side, exposing more of his neck for her to explore with her petal-soft lips.

“Mmm,” she sighed contentedly, her warm breath brushing over his skin and causing a pleasurable shiver to course throughout his body. When she was good, she was very good.

Hawke stooped, trailing kisses along his throat as her arms wrapped around him. He adored the warmth of her embrace and the feel of her breasts pressed against his shoulder blades. One of her hands stayed on his chest as the other ventured lower, slowly journeying towards the simple trousers that he wore about the house. With gentle, teasing fingers, she slipped her hand directly into his smallclothes and began to lightly toy with him. Anders gasped at the sudden sensation, then chuckled, the laugh rumbling in his chest. “Now?”

“Why not?” she said, her fingers still lazily playing with him before abruptly locking around his girth and running firmly along his shaft.

Again, he gasped. It had been ages since she had initiated this.

“I want you,” she continued, her voice low. Her tongue had found the shell of his ear and not a breath of the lust in her voice was lost on him. He found his own arousal spiking suddenly as she nipped playfully at his ear. Maker, her touch was so good. The warmth of her breath, the feeling of her hand around his rapidly hardening erection. “Now. Tomorrow I could be dead.”

He had laughed under his breath with just a hint of desperation. “Well, that’s all the motivation I need,” he managed to get out, his voice trembling as her thumb played across the sensitive head of his cock.

Then her hand left him and she dragged him from the chair and into a startlingly fierce kiss. He locked one of his arms around the small of her back, pulling her body flush with his own as his lips slatted over hers. It was impossible to hold back a moan as she ground her hips against him. Hearing the rough sound, Hawke had laughed into the kiss before pulling away. Looking at him mischievously through lowered lashes, she snatched the collar of his shirt and led him from the room. Anders stumbled after her until she yanked him into her bedroom and then, without bothering to close to the door, threw him onto the bed. For such a small girl, she was quite powerful. Or maybe he was just letting himself be overpowered. It was difficult to say.

She had stood at the foot of the bed, grinning with a glee that almost intimidated him. The fireplace glowed behind her and her slender form cast a long, dark shadow that fell across the bed and engulfed him. Lying before her, watching as she stripped away the maroon robe she often wore, Anders felt his heart shuddering to a stop. It was altogether too easy to overwhelmed by her when she was like this. When her eyes met his and he felt that she was truly seeing him. These moments had become increasingly rare. But in that moment, when her eyes found his and were heated with a desire that had been absent for too long, Anders found that his own gaze broke from hers, drawn irresistibly to her breasts. Bathed in the orange glow of the fire, those tempting curves, topped with perfect, rosy peaks, demanded his full and undivided attention. He heard her laugh at him. “Anders, you really are impossible,” she chuckled, letting her clothing fall to the floor in a silky puddle around her boots.

“What was that?” he asked with feigned confusion. “I was a bit distracted by those glorious tits of yours.” Suppressing a grin, he looked up at her face once more and found that she doing everything in her power to look stern.

“That,” she began firmly, “was very impertinent. I have half a mind to punish you.”

“Do you now?” he drawled, folding his arms behind his head and observing her appreciatively as she bent over to pull her boots from her feet. “What sort of punishment did you have in mind? I have been rather devious lately.”

“Take off your clothes.” Hawke kicked off her second boot and stood before him with her hands planted on her hips.

“Don’t you want to undress me?”

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “What kind of punishment would that be? I do all the work and you just lie there?” Again she shook her head, long strands of hair falling across her face.

Sighing indulgently, Anders sat up and slowly lifted the hem of his shirt over his head and cast it to the side. She was still looking at him with mock disapproval, her lips pursed and one of her brows raised. Sliding off the bed, Anders stood, removed his boots and then looked up to meet her eyes as he slowly slid his trousers and smalls down over his hips. He took some pleasure as her eyes flickered downward, surveying him lasciviously. That focused gaze of hers that made him feel as if he were the most important person in Thedas. When things were good, they were very good.

“Lie down,” she said in a voice that was meant to be commanding and yet contained a gentle fondness that flooded the pit of his stomach with a deep, aching love for her.

“Yes, my love.”

She approached as he positioned himself comfortably with his head and torso supported by the plentiful heaps of pillows. Hawke had moved to the side of the bed and now looked at him, the corners of her mouth upturned slightly even as something like sadness began to creep into her eyes. He couldn’t bear the alteration of her expression and, feeling a small rush of panic, Anders reached out, grasping her wrist and pulling her so that she was seated on the side of the bed. “Now then,” he said, determined to bring her focus back to the two of them and to the act which he was now desperate to begin, “shall we discuss that punishment you alluded to?”

She crept further onto the bed, her knees brushing against the side of his thigh as she knelt beside him. “Put your hands above your head.” Her voice was barely audible, but his body obeyed her instinctively. With careful and deliberate sensuality, she lifted herself so that she was straddling him. He could feel the already wet cleft between her thighs as it brushed against his cock. She was so smooth, warm, and inviting that he felt himself throb with nearly painful desire. He reached out to her, about to brush an errant strand of hair away from her face. Just before he made contact, she jerked away from him and barked, “Keep your hands above your head!”

Anders laughed, extending his arms once more. “Oh, I do love this game.”

“Shut up,” she purred fondly, sliding one hand up across his chest and locking it firmly around his neck. The breath caught in his throat as she put that uncomfortable pressure on his larynx. Smiling yet maintaining that pressure, she bent across him and pressed her lips to his. There was a wretched tenderness in her kiss that was only ever present when she was hurting him in some way. Though there was the slightest pain inflicted by her grasp and a thread of panic that came with the air deprivation, there came with these things a heightened pleasure that he had become almost addicted to during his years with Hawke. Each quickened beat of his heart resounded throughout his entire body and the pulsing of blood in his groin intensified the thrill of the gentle thrusting of her hips against his.

“For Andraste’s sake, Hawke,” he choked. “Let me in.”

She pulled away from the kiss, swiftly biting his lower lips as she drew back. “No,” she said, her voice having grown nearly as rough as his own. He felt his cheeks flush and his eyes grow hot as her hand increased the pressure on his throat for a fraction of a second before she let go, planting both her palms on his pectorals. He breathed deeply, feeling a surge of relief as oxygen filled his lungs once more. Over him, Hawke was leaning to the side, fumbling for something that he couldn’t see. As she searched, her body shifted against him pleasantly, eliciting a moan as his desire to bury himself in her redoubled. Unable to help himself, he reached out to her, placing his open hands on her hips and running them upwards over her smooth skin towards those perfect breasts. Her skin, in spite of the fact that she was completely bare and exposed, was still feverishly hot. There was always something scalding about her; perhaps that’s why her fireballs were always so searing.

Hawke pulled herself upright once more, something in her hands and, to Anders’ surprise, she did not immediately reprimand him for having shifted his arms down from above his head. Rather, she put down what she held on the bed beside them and reached up to where his hands fondly toyed with her breasts. Gently, she took his hands into her own and lifted them to her lips. He furrowed his brow with mild surprise as she pressed soft kisses to his knuckles, her own eyes closed and her brows knit. For a moment, she was still, those burning lips pressed to the cool skin of his hands. When she released him, she met his eye with such an odd expression that his heart almost stopped. “You are more precious to me than anyone.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, her hand was across his mouth and she was smiling so brightly that he was sure he must have hallucinated whatever sadness he had seen in her eyes the moment before. “Now get your hands off my tits,” she ordered.

Grudgingly, he obeyed, rolling his eyes as he did so.

“Now, because you’ve proven untrustworthy, I think I’ll have to use these.” She retrieved two leather tethers from where she had placed them on the bed. He lifted a brow and laughed breathlessly.

Anders was no stranger to these ties; life with Hawke was never boring and, though there were plenty of nights when they made love clinging to each other and breathless with passion and affection, there were times when she needed this distance between them. There were times when she demanded authority and left him with no other option but to obey. If he was honest with himself, he preferred it when she allowed him to hold her. He loved it when he was allowed to control the pace and to drive her mad with his motion and ministrations. There was nothing more beautiful than the flush of her cheeks when he was above her, driving himself deeper into her with each thrust. It was simple, honest lovemaking and he preferred it that way. But, if he was really truly honest, there was also something wonderful about handing the power entirely over to Hawke. She would bind his hands to the bedposts and take control completely. During those times, he could allow himself to completely abandon his own thoughts. He could close his eyes and thoroughly give himself over to the experience of being touched. Hawke was talented. Sometimes she moved in such perfect accordance with his desires that he almost suspected her of reading his thoughts.

Tonight was no different and yet somehow it was nothing like what he had experienced before. Something in her manner had altered. Once his hands were bound, Hawke slipped down without kissing him as she usually did. He watched her descent, watched as she bowed her head and finally ran her tongue over his length, starting at the base and finally planting a wet kiss on the tip. Looking up to meet his eye, she ran her tongue over her lips before dipping down once more to take him into her mouth. She always gave such focused attention, such wonderful suction, that he instantly felt as if he had vacated his body and was nothing more than clay to be molded by her skilled hands. When one on her hands began to toy with his sac, he could feel the slightest hint of tremulous magic beginning to build across her palm. His stomach wrenched in anticipation. “Maker, just do it,” he gasped.

He felt the vibration of her laughter and thought that he might lose it right then. And then there was the mounting surge of electricity that built in her fingertips, rushing through him and causing him to cry out with a confusing mix of pleasure, pain, and sheer surprise. Hawke had learned this trick from him and now she took great delight in using it against him. It was all very nearly too much, especially as her tongue flicked with greater alacrity against his increasingly sensitive tip. “Hawke,” he groaned, “Maker, if you keep that up, I’ll be of no use to anyone.”

In seeming defiance of him, Hawke slid still further down his cock and took him into her throat. She held maddeningly still, only using her tongue to toy slightly with the base as her hand, now slick with conjured oils, slid deftly to the cleft of his ass. Anders had no way of containing his gasp as she moved her finger in slow, lazy circles around his entrance. Her mouth was still over him, holding him within that intoxicating warmth and wetness. More than anything, he wanted to reach down, weave his fingers through her hair, and control her movements. Groaning, Anders strained against his bindings. It was useless; Hawke had been diligent. Finding that effort useless, he lifted his hips, pushing himself into her throat. He then hesitated, seeing if she would draw back or stop him. But Hawke held her ground, daring him. Craving her, he increased his speed, using her throat roughly. It felt so much like he was in control that Anders almost forgot how much the power lay with Hawke. He forgot until she plunged her finger into his ass and then swiftly took away her mouth. Simultaneously, he gasped at the abrupt intrusion and the sudden loss of that pleasant suction. As if to comfort him, she pressed a soft kiss to his navel. As she did, she slowly slid her tapered finger in and out of his entrance. Long ago, Anders had discovered Hawke’s affinity for using her clever hands to control him. The proper contortion of her slender fingers could leave him helplessly gasping with pleasure or, if he disobeyed her wishes and crossed a line, she had only to shape her finger into a hook to effectively subdue him. Now, to reward him for his obedience, she treated him well. Her movements were smooth but relentless and kindled a growing fire inside him that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Please,” he whimpered, feeling himself drawing ever closer to climax as her free hand began to move in swift, determined jerks along his length. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that he was begging of her.

He soon found out. Just as if she were reading his mind once more, she was suddenly across his lap. Taking him in her hand, she positioned him at her slick entrance and then, with one fluid thrust of her hips, buried him fully inside of her. He delighted in the sound of her gasp and in the way her inner channel twitched as her body stretched to accommodate him. Whenever they began, it was always as if she suffered a shock when first interlocking with a foreign body. That deep, throaty gasp always escaped from her as she convulsed around his cock. No matter how strenuously he prepared her, she was always astoundingly tight and there was always an edge of pain in her voice as they began to move together. He couldn’t help but to feel the slightest swelling of pride that he was capable of rousing such a strong reaction from her.

And, as she rode him with rapid, uncontrolled bucking of her hips, her reaction only intensified. Anders wanted nothing more than to reach down and, with the careful attention of his fingers against the nub at the apex of her sex, bring her to a quaking finish. With the frustration of being bound, he let out a guttural sound that could most accurately be compared to a growl. Even without his touch, he knew that she was near to climax. Her muscles were already tense and her breath now came in short, desperate gasps as she rested her hands on his chest to brace herself. Hawke’s fingernails were rasping against the light dappling of hair that spread across his chest as her body came ever closer to the brink. Her head rolled back, her throat exposed above the swell of her chest. With each of her movements, with each clench of her femininity over his cock, he could see rise and fall of her breasts as they shone with the perspiration that had risen on her burning skin. Anders felt his vision clouding, his heart racing, and his body threatening to spill over into of her. Closing his eyes tightly, he threw all of his energy into keeping himself from finishing before her. Still, he could hear the frantic slap of her skin against his and smell the rising scent of skin and sex.

She had overwhelmed him. As she always managed to do, she had overwritten all of his thought and all of his consciousness with her own being and her own body. There was only Hawke, always her and her alone. There was only the sound of her voice as she shouted his name, her body convulsing rapidly as she fell forward onto his chest, pulling him to her and keeping him safely inside of her at once. At that moment, they crashed over the edge together, without sense and beyond control. Her name was on his lips—her real name, not the distant surname on which she usually insisted—and he could feel the humid cloud of her breath against his chest as she sighed his name.

But that had been hours ago. It had been just after the sun set and now, in the dead of night and in the dim light of the dying fire, Anders found himself alone in a mansion that, to this day, still didn’t feel like his home.  
He was moments from asking Bodahn where she had gone, but Anders had no interest in working the dwarf up into a lather. Since Leandra’s disappearance and murder, Bodahn had taken every perceived threat to the Hawke household incredibly seriously. Anders thought that there was a good chance that the diminutive merchant felt some residual guilt after what had happened. After all, he had been around the house with Leandra more than anyone else and, if anyone might have noticed what had been going on before the end, it would have been him. Of course, Hawke had never blamed anyone but herself. Things rarely seemed to weigh on her, but losing Bethany, Carver, and finally her own mother had taken a toll. Perhaps that was the reason for her increasing withdrawal. But no. She had seemed to be getting better. She had seemed almost like herself again before tumbling down once more and ever more steadily away from him.

As Anders stood in the foyer, contemplating going to seek out Bodahn and inquiring after Hawke, there was the faint sound of a key in the lock. Bolting for the door, Anders was directly beside it when Hawke opened. The moment she was over the threshold, his arms were around her and his face was buried in her hair. He hadn’t allowed himself to realize before how worried he had been. But, from the moment he had found her missing from their bed, he had been concerned. There was something about it that had sat completely wrong and, as he retraced the evening, he had remembered her words, “ _Tomorrow I could be dead_.” As he considered what she had said so casually, he’d wondered if he had missed something. He wondered if he would be left hating himself for the rest of his life for not realizing the importance of that one, fleeting cry for help.

Her return freed him instantly from those concerns. Of course, he had so nearly been right in his suspicions. On the Wounded Coast, the wind cooling her skin, Hawke had come so near to putting an end to the gnawing darkness that had been plaguing her for weeks. In her way, she had said her goodbyes. She had had her last embrace with Anders and kissed his sleeping face before sneaking from the room. But, as she had stood above the crashing waves, it had not been thoughts of Anders that had made her step back. And yet, when she returned home, it was Anders’ arms that wrapped around her.

Though she had no inkling as to why, his arms felt strangely confining now. His embrace felt more like a hindrance than a sign of affection. As Hawke had been wending her way back from the shore, her mind had been filled with nothing but what she had to do. By the time she was back in Hightown, the sun was already beginning to paint the horizon with long, rosy fingers of light. It hadn’t occurred to her that perhaps, during her long absence, Anders might have arisen. In fact, she hadn’t really considered him at all. When he pulled her close upon her arrival, it was wrenching. It was a complication that she had not foreseen. She had not imagined having to say goodbye. She had not imagined having to explain why, after all that had happened and after all she had done, she was going off to Minrathous to rescue a man to whom she had never shown the slightest partiality. There was no way that Anders would understand. Would he be angry? Would he try to stop her? What would she do if he tried to stand in her way? She couldn’t begin to imagine.

“I was worried about you,” he whispered into her hair.

“You needn’t have been,” she said, attempting to inflect her tone with some small degree of levity. “I only went for a stroll.”

“A stroll? You’ve been gone for hours and you know that these streets are crawling with gangs at night. Even in Hightown it’s too dangerous for you to be wandering off on your own.” He pulled back, examining her face with restrained concern and cupping her cheek in his large hand. “You might at least have woken me. I would have gone with you.”

“I needed to be alone. I had to think about something.”

His brow furrowed, his warm, brown eyes narrowing slightly as he let out a small huff of frustration. “You’re always in your own head these days. You can share your thoughts with me, you know.” Then, quietly, he added, “Like you used to.”

“Fine,” Hawke sighed, stepping away from him and beginning to walk swiftly towards the staircase. “I’ll share my thoughts with you now, but we’re going to have to do it while I pack. I don’t have infinite amounts of time to discuss my feelings with you, you know.”

“Why do you always do that? Make me feel like a nuisance instead of a man who is desperately in love with… and why are you packing? Are you going somewhere?”

Taking two steps at a time, she called back, “Yes! I’m going to Minrathous.”

“Um… and you weren’t even going to discuss this with me?”

“We’re discussing it now.” She reached the top landing and swept into her bedroom, not closing the door behind her. Within moments, Anders followed after her, a little breathless from the rapid ascent.

“Are you at least going to tell me why you’re going to Tevinter without any notice whatsoever?” He was doing his best to stifle the anger he now felt curdling within him, but there was still a healthy amount of irritation coming through in his voice.

Hawke stood, turned away from him, and was surprised to find that tears were forming in her eyes. The pain that was evident in his tone hurt her. Usually, when Anders was upset or irate about something or other, she only said the vague, pleasant words that she knew would keep him from blathering on for longer than was necessary. She had convinced herself that she only kept him around for what was, admittedly, some pretty phenomenal sex. It had never occurred to her that maybe, over the years, she had come to care about his feelings. In the past months, she had let him drone on a little longer about his hatred of the templars and the Circle and the Chantry. She had let him kiss her more often and hold her in his arms whenever he chose. More than once she had fallen asleep curled up against him. And, all that time, she had told herself that it was only because it was too much of a hassle to continue resisting him. She had never thought that, when she told him that she loved him, she had meant it.

But now the thought of leaving him—actually saying the words to him and knowing that a goodbye was imminent—seemed like too much to bear. Now, she thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay here forever and allow herself just a bit more selfish enjoyment with the man who cherished her and loved her to the point of breaking. Yes, what had gone on with Fenris was a shame and, if she could do it over, she might have acted differently, but why should she go to so much trouble for a bigot who had always hated her and everything she was? Maybe she wasn’t a very good person. Maybe that was alright. Anders loved her as she was. Maybe she should stay with the man who loved her for the person she truly was, bad or no.

Maybe she didn’t want someone who loved the kind of person she was.

“I can’t stand myself,” she whispered, keeping her voice steadier than she felt. “I know that you think I’m some sort of hero and that I’ve been acting unselfishly on behalf of mages and elves and all the other oppressed masses, but the truth is that I only ever helped when I thought that it would benefit me in some way. I’m not a good person—not deep down, not when it counts. A good person never would have done what I did to Fenris.” Her voice was low when she finished speaking and, when Anders did not respond for a long moment, she began to think that he had not heard her. She began to hope that he had not heard her.

“ _Fenris_?” he spat, seeming utterly flabbergasted that that name had arisen under these circumstances. “Fenris?” he repeated. “Are you really bringing him up now?” Anders came to stand in front of Hawke, cupping his hand under her chin and demanding that she look at him. “What is this really about, Elena? Because I’m not going to stand here and let you spout out some nonsense about how you’re not a good person when anyone who’s ever met you knows that you are the most amazing, strong, and good-hearted woman in Thedas. I’ve seen all you’ve done for the helpless and the downtrodden. I’ve seen you stand up for the people who needed you the most. And there could have been easier ways. If you were really so self-serving and horrible, you would have tried to ingratiate yourself with the Templars instead of defying them at every turn.”

“ _I’m_  a mage! Of course I didn’t go running for the support of Meredith or Cullen. It’s in my best interest for mages to be free! It was completely selfish.  _I’m_  completely selfish.”

“You’re completely out of your mind! You are a hero, an example of all that mages can be. The fact that you have the humility to think otherwise is just a testament to your true goodness.”

Hawke’s eyes were blurred with tears as she looked up at him, her bottom lip thrust out to keep it from trembling. “Then why did I do that to Fenris?”

Anders knit his brows, studying her face. He had never seen so much emotion written across her features, excepting perhaps the night her mother had died. He had never heard her speak with so much doubt in her words. It was incomprehensible to him that it was the elf, of all people, who brought out this depth of emotion in her. It was impossible. And yet, as he stared down at her, Anders felt a small trickling of doubt begin to flow through him. “Was there… something… with him?” The words sounded even more ludicrous as he said them. Seeing her expression, he instantly knew that it had been the wrong thing to say.

“How can you even ask me that?”

“It’s not such a ridiculous question!” he persisted, without knowing why he was defending such a truly idiotic notion. “Wasn’t I there the night you met him? What was it you said? ‘ _Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf._ ’ And wasn’t I there a thousand other times when he tagged along for no other reason than to make moon-eyes at you? And now here you are! Just devastated that your little elven pet is gone!”

“Fenris was never my pet!” she spat vehemently. “And you know that you’re the only man I’ve ever… been with. How can you even question that?” Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke and it felt as if she had punched him squarely in his sternum. Anders buried his face in one of his hands and then, pulling his hair roughly back from his face, groaned in frustration. This time, his frustration was entirely with himself.

“I know, I know. I just… I don’t understand why you’ve let yourself get so upset over a man who could scarcely even tolerate you. He hated mages and everything we are. For the life of me I can’t figure out why you care. He’s gone, Hawke. And you weren’t even friends.”

“Someone has to be my friend in order to be spared a life of slavery and torment? That’s a pretty bleak outlook, Anders.”

“That’s an exaggeration of my point and you know it. Fenris wasn’t just some innocent bystander, like Feynriel, who got carted off by slavers. He was a brutal beast who was completely incapable of feeling sympathy for anyone! He was vicious, Hawke! He would have turned on you eventually, in one way or another. Maybe you thought he followed you out of some sort of loyalty, but he only did so that, when his master came to claim him, he could come and exploit his connection to you.”

“That’s not fair! Maybe he was bitter and maybe he was violent, but there was a time when he was an innocent bystander. There was a time before Danarius warped him into the beast he became. And so what if he is violent? So what if he is violent and bigoted and brutal? No one deserves to be a slave! You have a fucking spirit of Justice in your head and you can’t even figure out that much?”

“What happened to Fenris is justice! He had no compassion for people who were forced to spend their lives in captivity. He had no sympathy for the plight of a people who were ripped from their homes and locked away forever under the guard of uncaring oppressors. And now he shares their fate! What could be more Just?”

She shook her head, holding up her hands in resignation. “I can’t do this. I can’t discuss this. I don’t know who we are anymore. I don’t know who I am and I definitely don’t know who you are. I don’t care if you think that Fenris had this coming; I know that he didn’t. And I know that, if I don’t do something to fix what I’ve done, I’ll die. I can’t live like this. I need to fix this.”

“And that means running off to Tevinter on some fool rescue mission? How’s that going to work, Hawke? Just you and a rag-tag band of adventurers against a powerful Magister and whatever armies he might have?”

“I never thought that I could take down the Arishok and his armies either. It was Fenris who proposed that I take him on in single combat. He had faith in my abilities. Why can’t you?”

“Don’t do that,” he said in a low, lethal voice. “Don’t you dare compare me to him.”

Hawke bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I know.” She sighed raggedly, hesitating as she searched for the words she ought to say. “I know that you’ve always supported me. But that’s not what I need anymore. I don’t need someone who supports me; I need to challenge myself. I need to be _more_ than what I’ve been. I need the chance to change. Because the way I’ve been thus far isn’t working. I don’t want to be this way anymore.”

Anders looked at her, waiting for more but receiving nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on his own, her gaze plaintive and a tear finally breaking free to roll down her cheek. He reached up, wiping the tear away with his thumb and leaving his hand gently cradling her cheek. Hawke closed her eyes, pressing her face lightly against his palm. “And what about me?” he asked, his voice surprisingly tender as his anger broke and fell away. “Do you not want to be with me anymore?”

She shook her head, not opening her eyes. “It’s not that. I don’t want to be with  _me_  anymore. I have to go. I have to try to find a version of myself that I can live with.”

“And I can’t be there with you?”

“No. I have to do this on my own.”

Hawke was surprised when his lips pressed to hers, soft and gentle and almost chaste. His arms wrapped around her and she reached up, grasping the front of his shirt and clinging to him like a child. She hated herself for being so vulnerable and small. She hated him for holding her and for smelling so fucking good. She hated all of this. “I have to go,” she whispered against his mouth.

Swiftly, he gave her one final peck on the lips and then drew back, studying her before letting her go entirely. “Fine. I… I won’t pretend to understand. And I won’t pretend that it’s okay. But I do love you. I won’t stop loving you. Know that at least.”

When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was honestly the longest sex scene in the history of mankind. My apologies. Let's credit Anders' Gray Warden stamina, I suppose. Usually I make those way too short ("...and then he stuck it in. It was some hot, sexy sex they had.") and so this time I was trying to combat that natural instinct. I was also labouring under the notion that I could explain their established relationship by delving into the dynamics of their sex-life.


	3. Recruitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is a rather long story, I felt a touch guilty just blithely ignoring the companions.

Hawke stood motionless and hollow for longer than she would have liked to admit, staring at the empty space where Anders had stood. Then, as she had with her father, and with Bethany, and with Carver and, finally, with her mother, she took a deep breath… and carried on.

In the Hawke family, Malcolm had always been the backbone. He had lent them all a portion of his ample strength and, while he lived, life had seemed somewhat less impossible to bear. But then, with his passing, it had soon become evident to Hawke that she, as the eldest, would need to bear the burdens of the family. Leandra, for all her kindness, was tender like a child. She worried too much and was so fragile that the slightest pressure seemed to shatter her like glass. Carver, for all his pride and physical prowess, was too insecure to truly serve as the stable leader of the clan. Bethany would never have seen herself as the head of the family; she was such a young girl. That left Elena to give what little strength she had to her family members. They always seemed to need her strength. They never seemed sated. They never seemed stable. Perhaps that was on her. After all, Leandra had certainly found plenty of reasons to blame Hawke for everything that went wrong in the household. Though perhaps Leandra hadn’t been so very unreasonable to expect her fully-grown daughter to be able to at least keep everyone alive. Malcolm had managed that much for years.

But, with each loss, Hawke had learned better how to cope. She had learned well the importance of carrying on and moving forward with unrelenting determination. Anders was just one more loss. And this was the loss that hurt the least, because she had only just realized how much she cared for him.

She didn’t need Anders along with her for this journey, but the fact remained that she would need companions. After all, she was a mage and didn’t necessarily fare well in close-combat. And, in Tevinter, a well-placed sword against the side of Danarius’ throat would certainly come in quite handy. The really terrible thing was how desperately she needed Fenris’ abilities now. Aveline had obligations to the City Guard and could scarcely afford to leave Kirkwall for a span of several months. And Carver, the other sword-toting member of Hawke’s cadre of allies, was dead and rotting in the Deep Roads. So that left Varric, Merrill, and Sebastian. Hawke groaned inwardly. An entire party of mages and rogues and all of them specializing in ranged attacks. If they were ambushed, destruction was a relative certainty.

There wasn’t even a guarantee that anyone would agree to accompany her. Varric wasn’t without work to do in the city and Sebastian had always been a tad fickle and unpredictable. Of course Merrill would come along, but what good was another mage? One without even modest abilities as a healer? Andraste’s ass, they were doomed.

On top of everything else, there was the matter of transport. They would need to use a ship, of course, which was a daunting prospect. Hawke had hated ships ever since her delightful little voyage from Ferelden to the Free Marches. True, her accommodations would likely be more comfortable now that she was not a refugee, but it was still an unpleasant prospect. This really was the sort of thing that would have best suited Isabela. But, like all other potentially useful people, Isabela was gone. She had flitted off with the Tome of Koslun in what had been a truly marvelous betrayal. Of course, given how she herself had so recently betrayed Fenris, Hawke really couldn’t hold onto her anger towards Isabela. Maker help her, she was not going to be a hypocrite on top of everything else.

But there was no point lamenting over things that were beyond her control. The only thing left to do was to prepare herself for the journey ahead. One of the splendid things about being a mage was that there would be no need to gather together and tote along any heavy armor. Had this been an ordinary outing, Hawke would need nothing more than a single, simple robe. As it was, however, she thought that she might need something more ornate. The Tevinter Imperium was by no means as opulent as Orlais, but it was still a great deal more extravagant than Ferelden or even the Free Marches. Hawke still considered herself to be a Fereldan at heart and the nation’s barbarian heritage was still very much a part of her mannerisms and dress. This was somewhat problematic, given that she intended to visit Danarius’ compound. The thick, flocked wool robes that she customarily wore were by no means appropriate. For that matter, she fully expected having to don at least some amount finery for formal gatherings.

With growing frustration, Hawke examined her limited wardrobe. She owned only two or three gowns that would be suitable for high functions and even her finest mage’s robes had some very noticeable stains from dragons’ blood. Ah, well. There was no helping that. She packed away those clothes, as well as some other necessities, into a large, canvas bag that had been enchanted to repel water. When she was done gathering together the various and sundry items that she would need, Hawke placed her hands upon her hips and stared at the bag that sat on the floor beside her wardrobe. Were it entirely up to her, she would have picked up that bag right then and gone down to the docks to take the first outbound ship.

But now was a time for patience. Though dawn had come, it was still far too early to go to speak with the companions that she needed to accompany her. Varric typically rose quite early, but even he didn’t rise the very moment that the sun crested the horizon. To fill the hours, Hawke would have to sleep. Reluctantly she crawled into bed, alone in it for the first time in years, and pulled the covers over her head. Sleep came more quickly than she would have expected and she slept more soundly than she could have imagined.

When she woke, the sun was almost straight overhead and she had already fallen behind schedule. Hawke dressed hurriedly, brushed her hair, and roughly pinched some color into her cheeks. She would go after Sebastian first. She was relatively certain that it would take him the longest to get ready to leave and, if she failed to convince him to come along for the journey, it would be better to know sooner rather than later. That being said, she liked her chances with him. For all he was a man of the Maker, Sebastian was not above being swayed by a desperate woman. Hawke had seen the way he looked at her from time to time. She saw the way that he tensely clenched and unclenched his hands when she flirted with him. It was to her advantage that, on that particular day, she was looking just a bit more attractive than usual. Perhaps crying had increased the luster of her eyes and the night air on the Wounded Coast had enhanced the brightness of her complexion. Whatever the cause, she knew that Sebastian would have an especially hard time saying no to her that day.

He was in the Chantry, as usual. How he spent so much time there without going quite mad was beyond Hawke’s comprehension. Handsome men like him needed to roam free and stick their cocks into panting, eager tavern wenches. That was just the way of the world. It was impossible not to wonder what Sebastian did to release the tension that surely built up within him. Hawke smiled at the vivid image that sprang readily to mind.

“My lady Hawke,” Sebastian said in that wonderfully accented voice of his, “what sort of reckless adventuring are you getting up to today?” He smiled, white teeth flashing behind full, well-shaped lips. A weaker woman would have swooned; Hawke saw opportunity. Casually thrusting out her chest, she clasped her hands behind her back and sauntered forward with a manufactured innocence and vulnerability that she had spent ages cultivating.

“Sebastian,” she purred, drawing out his name and letting it play extravagantly on her tongue. “How does the Maker find you this fine day?”

His russet brows drew together as he surveyed her with piercing blue eyes. “What are you up to Hawke? Though I am flattered if you came all the way to the Chantry merely to inquire after my well-being.”

“Is that so impossible? I happen to take a great interest in your well-being.”

Some of the suspicion leaving his face, Sebastian smiled once more. “I am quite well, as it so happens. Today I am particularly pleased to be of use to the Chantry. A young woman—a Fereldan like yourself—has just been to seek guidance from the Maker and it has reminded me what a great honor it is to serve in His name.”

Hawke fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. “You know, Sebastian, I can think of a place that needs the Maker’s influence even more urgently than Kirkwall.”

Now, sensing that she was approaching her point, Sebastian’s smile took on a lopsided, amused aspect. “Is that so, Hawke? Just where might that be?”

She smiled sheepishly, blatantly thrusting her chest forward in the most nonchalant, unassuming way that she could possibly manage. It almost seemed like an unconscious affect rather than obvious maneuvering. “The Tevinter Imperium.”

Sebastian looked entirely taken aback by her suggestion. “Hawke, whatever cause could there be to go to the Imperium? Maker knows that it is the very center of depravity and moral disintegration.”

“All the more reason for a man such as yourself to go and spread the true Chant of Light,” she said, her voice cajoling.

“I am no fool, Hawke,” he grumbled, his voice low. “I know well enough that I would not preach long in Tevinter before having my hair set ablaze by malificarum.”

“Well, if I’m being completely honest, I would prefer that you didn’t preach if you chose to come along with me. My goal is something else altogether and what I need from you is your bow, not your pure heart or moving prayers.”

His brows were knit together once more. “My bow?”

Hawke inhaled deeply before beginning to explain. “I have no doubt that you will see the nobility of my cause once it’s explained. I know that you and Fenris got on well. In fact, I would say that you were very nearly the closest thing to a friend that he had here in Kirkwall. You know that he had great faith in the Maker and that, for all his faults, he was a good man. I see now that I allowed my own prejudice to get in the way of recognizing his merits. I allowed my magic, and his hatred of that magic, to blind me. I see now how gravely I have sinned. Andraste herself freed the slaves and fought the magisters of Tevinter, and I have gone against all she believed. My hope is that you will help me redeem myself in the eyes of the Maker.” She looked down at the floor, biting her lower lip and letting out a quavering sigh. “Please, Sebastian.” Hawke lifted her gaze once more, staring up at Sebastian through thick, dark lashes. “Help me save Fenris. I can’t do this without you.”

For a moment, Sebastian stared at her silently. Then, he inhaled, preparing to speak.

Walking away from the Chantry, Hawke whistled cheerfully. Of course Sebastian had agreed. Pretty words, teary eyes, and a heaving bosom… how could he resist? He had promised to be ready by nightfall. One down, two to go.

Varric was on the way to the Alienage, so it only made sense to recruit him next. With any luck, she could get him sloshed on ale and convince him without any trouble. Really, the only potential problem would be if he were not in the Hanged Man.

Fortunately, Varric was in his room. Unfortunately, so was Anders. The moment that Hawke entered the room, there was an uncomfortable silence that let her know that they had been talking about her. How much had Anders divulged? This was an unforeseen complication.

Much to her surprise, Hawke found that she was blushing when she caught sight of Anders. When she looked down at her shoes, it was not affected as it had been with Sebastian; it was because she could not bear the way that he was looking at her. The tears that she had banished the night before seemed to have banded together and formed an embarrassing puddle in her eyes.

“Anders,” she murmured, her voice cracking with strain.

He was coming towards her, leaving Varric behind. “Hawke.” His voice was so painfully gentle, without the traces of anger and irritation that it had contained when last they spoke. His hand brushed her cheek, his lips brushed the crown of her head. He seemed to struggle to find something to say. “Hawke, I….” He stopped and began again, then said simply, “Stay safe.” Then, as it had been the past night, Anders was gone before she was ready for him to leave.

Mercifully, Varric stayed silent. In that moment, Hawke quite forgot where she was and was entirely unaware of Varric’s eyes upon her. He was looking at her very strangely and it was for the best, perhaps, that she was unconscious of his gaze. Varric had known Hawke nearly from the beginning. He had known her since she was nothing more than one of Athenril’s lackeys. He had seen her in combat and he had seen her after she’d had too much to drink during a game of Diamondback; he’d seen her at her best and at her worst and he’d always liked and respected her. At least, until recently. After that business with the elf, he’d begun to suspect that Hawke could bullshit just about as well as he could. He’d begun to suspect that she might be just another thug and not the hero he’d made her out to be in the tales he wove for the entertainment of drunk bar patrons.  
What he saw now puzzled him. Though her head was bowed, he could see quite clearly that she was near tears. He’d been there when Carver had fallen; he’d been there when Leandra had staggered forward, mutilated and kept alive only by magic. Though it was clear that Hawke had been upset on those occasions, she had not cried. She had maintained her strong, shining, heroic façade.

Varric could see now that something in her had changed. She seemed bare and raw in a way that she never had before. It was unsettling. To say the least.

And then, quite suddenly, she was herself again. Eyes bright, but full of mirth, and her lips just barely curling into a smile.

“Well, that was uncomfortable. Buy me a drink?” She flashed a wink, tossed her hair, and thrust her hip to the side. He’d seen her adopt the same pose a hundred times over while she flirted at the bar.

“You’d better watch yourself, Hawke,” he said, chuckling obligingly. “You know Bianca’s the jealous type.”  
Hawke thrust out her lower lip into a pout. “Aw, of all the rotten luck! I’m finally single and you’re still spoken for.”

“Bianca’s my forever girl, you know that.”

“Well, she’s very lucky.”

Hawke was smiling placidly and with enough sobriety that he felt comfortable asking, “And how is single life treating you? Not proving too exciting, I hope.”

“Oh, it’s a million laughs a minute,” she answered dryly. “Whole bed to myself, no sneaky mages creeping in the bath with me, no chance of unwanted pregnancy. It’s everything I could have dreamed.”

“Well, I can’t say that Blondie’s taking it as well as you.”

She groaned, averting her gaze. “Varric, I beg of you. I am disgusted enough with my emotions without you trying to make me admit to having them.”

“Alright, Hawke. Play the taciturn hero if you must. It’s going to make the dialogue that much trickier to come up with, but I have confidence in my abilities. So, why are you here, Hawke?”

“What? Should I be at home licking my wounds and crying over a lock of Anders’ hair that I have tucked in my diary?” She shook her head. “As it so happens, I come here on business. I have an exciting proposition for you.”

Varric nodded. “Blondie mentioned that you might come by with something like that.”

“What did he tell you?” she said, almost snarling in spite of herself.

“He said that you got some fool notion in your head to go rescue the elf. Take on the Imperium all by yourself on some crusade for redemption.” Varric shrugged. “He told me to try to talk you out of it.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Are you going to try to talk me out of it?”

“Now does that sound like something I would do?” Varric laughed, gesticulating enthusiastically as he added, “A lone mage abandons the love of her life to go on a doomed crusade to rescue the bitter slave whom she so callously betrayed; I would be a real fool to miss the chance to see that one firsthand. This one’s got it all: adventure, impossible odds, romance, and a hero on a mission of redemption.”

“I’m afraid that there’s a fairly slim chance of romance in this one, Varric,” she said, smiling with mild amusement. “You’ve already noted that the love of my life, as you so charmingly called my little fling, is staying behind.”

Varric waved his hand carelessly. “Leave the details to me, sweetheart.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “If you pair me off with Merrill, so help me Varric.”

He laughed. “She’s not the one I had in mind, but I think I like that even better. Give Daisy a chance, won’t you?”

Hawke rolled her eyes, her crooked smile broadening slightly. “Well, first I have to get her to tag along. I don’t think that she particularly cares for boats. I don’t think she’s ever been on one, come to that.”

“Why not just take the Imperial Highway? Or head over the Vimmark Mountains?”

“If you want to go on an interminable hiking trip through treacherous terrain, that’s your business. Winter isn't so very far off now and we certainly don’t want to get caught in some snowstorm as we head north. All things considered, it may well prove to be quicker just to go up around Rivain and head to Minrathous that way. Safer too. We’re missing a juggernaut, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Varric nodded. “Clever girl. Well, just mention Isabela and you’ll have Daisy on board in no time.”

“Thanks for the tip, Varric. You know just how to play the ladies,” Hawke said with a quick wink.

He tapped the crossbow that lay on the table. “Jealous, remember?”

Turning towards the door, Hawke laughed and shook her head slightly.

It had been easier to get Varric than she had expected, but she still felt vaguely sick after her encounter with Anders. Just a few more hours, however, and she could leave him and this whole damn city behind her. Maybe she would never have to come back. Maybe she could rescue Fenris and then send the others back without her. There was no reason for her to stay in Kirkwall. There was no one to stay for. Just an empty house and a million reminders of all the ways she had failed.  But that was neither here nor there. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Now, the only thing that mattered was getting Merrill to leave her dilapidated little abode in the Alienage and come on a voyage across the rough seas.

Hawke did not particularly enjoy going to the Alienage. Since her arrival in Kirkwall, Hawke had lived and conducted herself driven by the powerful force of her conviction that any man, woman, or child, given enough skill and determination, could climb to the highest reaches of society. She had needed this belief to keep her strong. During the long, cramped nights in Gamlen’s hovel, she had closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around herself, and pledged that she would do everything in her power to pull herself free from the mire of Lowtown. For a long while, she had had nothing but contempt for those who failed to do the same. She saw the wretched waifs that lurched around the Undercity or begged pitifully throughout Lowtown. Months and years passed and the same people failed to rise. She did not pity them. After all, she had come to Kirkwall as a Fereldan refugee and had clawed her way into a mansion in  Hightown. If others could not do the same, then that was their own fault.

The Alienage was something different, however. The place had the fetid stench of desperation hanging in the air and everywhere she looked there were signs of the long-standing poverty of the elves. Hawke could not feel the same contempt for them that she felt for the human scum that slouched around the city and never changed their lot. The elves hadn’t the same opportunities as humans. Though their slavery was over in the Free Marches, there was still little for them to do but to become whores or servants. Beyond that, they could not rise. There would be no elven nobility. There would be no elven Viscount or Captain of the Guard. She had never even seen any elven templars. They never found their way into positions of true power and the human elite largely ignored the suffering of the elves. The Alienage always made Hawke ache with something that felt akin to guilt. She had never cared for that sensation and, whenever possible, she avoided going there and reminding herself of the unalterable suffering of an entire class of people.

Of course, there were times when it could not be avoided. For one thing, Merrill was in need of adult supervision. Fully-grown though she was, Merrill’s undeniable naiveté necessitated Hawke’s occasional intervention. The visits were always a bit awkward. Merrill had the tendency to panic in Hawke’s presence and would instantly begin to scurry about to straighten up her sad little excuse for a home. Hawke had never liked being fussed over and would, as kindly as she could, assure Merrill that there was no need for any such formality. No matter how many times she was told this, however, Merrill continued to act as if a visit from Hawke was tantamount to a visit from a great dignitary.

That day was no exception and, the moment that Merrill saw Hawke cross her threshold, her eyes grew wide with alarm and she began to babble, “Oh, Hawke! I do apologize for all the clutter. Let me just clear you off a chair. There we are. There are just no clear surfaces, I’m afraid; I’ve been researching a bit about the Eluvian and there’s just books and papers everywhere. I must look like such a mess. Do take a seat! I get so nervous when your towering over me like that.”

Hawke raised a brow. “I’m hardly towering, Merrill. Just an inch or two taller than you are, really.” Nevertheless, she sat and leaned back into the weathered wood of the chair that Merrill had cleared.

“Oh, I know, Hawke, but you always seem to be towering. You’re so powerful and grand and I’m afraid that it can be a bit intimidating sometimes.”

Hawke laughed and shook her head. “I suppose there are worse things than being a bit imposing. In any case, I didn’t come here just to make you uneasy. Rather, I came to make a request.”

“Oh? Are we going on another adventure?” said Merrill, seeming more composed now that she knew the cause for Hawke’s visit. “I’ll try to make myself useful. I’ve been working on my hexes.”

“Well, it is an adventure, but it’s going to be a bit more complicated than our usual expeditions. For one thing, we’re going to be leaving the Free Marches for a bit. Not for ages and ages, mind you, but for a few months at least.”

Merrill’s eyes were wide once more and she tilted her head to the side quizzically, exposing the skin of her long neck. “Where are we going? Somewhere exciting?”

“Yes, actually. Somewhere very exciting. As a mage, it’s a place that I’ve always dreamed of going. We’re going to the Tevinter Imperium. I’ve decided to take Danarius up on his offer.”

“Why do you want me to come along? It’s all very grand in Minrathous, I’m sure, and I’m not sure that I’d fit in very well.”

“You’ll fit in fine, Merrill,” Hawke assured her. “And if you’re at all worried that slavery is legal in Tevinter, then don’t be. You will be under my protection and I will not let any harm come to you. I have decided, after all, that I can’t hold with the idea of any elf being subjected to slavery, least of all one of my companions. Which is why I’m going after Fenris. I need all the help I can get Merrill, especially yours.”

“Fenris? I don’t think he’ll be very happy to see me in his rescue party.”

“I don’t think he’ll be very happy to see any of us. Furthermore, he won’t remember us anyway. Danarius assures me that Fenris’ memories have been removed. It’s unfortunate, but it might actually work to our favor. Maybe he won’t remember how much he hates all of us.”

“Of course, well, of course,” said Merrill, her words almost running together with the rapidity with which she spoke them. “If you’d like me to come, Hawke, then of course I will try to be of some use. Maybe I can even speak to some of the other mages in Tevinter about magic. Perhaps I might be able to find some help with the Eluvian.”

“There is that too, naturally,” Hawke said with a slight nod. “So, you’ll come then?”

“If you need me, Hawke, then I will follow you.” Merrill smiled timidly and Hawke felt a surge of triumph. Three companions. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to overcome the power of a magister. But they could try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's taking so long to get to the actual Fenris part. You needn't worry; when Fenris does show up he gets more than his fair share of the attention. He'd probably be satisfied with considerably less attention, to be quite honest.
> 
> Also, may I say that it was one of the most significant bummers of my life when I realized that Isabela couldn't be there because I had previously mentioned that Fenris proposed the duel with the Arishok. Seriously--three companions and not a single blade in the bunch.


	4. Over Troubled Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang (finally) reaches Minrathous.

> _“Somewhere beyond the sea_  
>  _Somewhere waitin’ for me_  
>  _My lover stands on golden sand_  
>  _And watches the ships that go sailin’.”_  
>  -“Beyond the Sea”, lyrics by Jack Lawrence

Land was visible across the pale, trembling surface of the water that glowed pink beneath the morning sun. Her initial sea-sickness long since overcome, Hawke stood on the top deck and stared towards the shores of Tevinter. Already, the breeze was beginning to smell of docks instead of open ocean. The faint smell of dead fish had come into the air and something reminiscent of cardamom was carried by the wind. Seagulls, absent while the ship was out to sea, were present once more and their plaintive wails pierced the silence of morning. These signs of the approaching shore filled Hawke with churning emotions that were difficult to separate. While Tevinter was only a distant prospect, she had felt calm and focused, but now that she was faced with its imminence, she felt swamped by a confusing mass of feelings.

There was fear, excitement, joy, crippling terror, disorientation, and the strange sickly feeling that she sometimes got when she had gone too long without eating. She felt overwhelmed and yet she knew that now more than ever she would need to be at her very best. She could let no weakness show and she must remain guarded so as to give no one any suspicions as to her true intentions. There was a good chance that Danarius would be suspicious of her. Though she had given over Fenris willingly, perhaps he would think that she had come to regret the loss of so useful a companion. It would take all her powers of persuasion to convince the magister that she had no intention of robbing him of his slave. Fortunately, she had a great deal of practice acting.

Firstly, she was going to have to slip into costume. She would need to make a positive impression on Danarius and a large part of that would be impacted by her apparel. After all, if she breezed into his compound clad in a threadbare mage’s robe like the one in which she had traveled, then it would seem as if she were disrespectful and there only for business. Her attire needed to covey frivolity and respect in equal measure.

Down in her cabin, she dressed herself in a gown of subtle splendor. It was by no means her finest, which she anticipated might be necessary for an occasion of somewhat greater importance than her arrival. Hawke felt ludicrous as she gazed at herself in the mirror. It was a lovely dress and she looked lovely in it, but it still felt silly to be dressed so formally. In Kirkwall, people respected her for her abilities and her combat prowess and so, even among the highest tiers of society, she was permitted to dress in a manner befitting a mage. Here, however, she wanted no one to suspect her of wanting to enter into battle of any kind. Magisters did not take well to the introduction of rivals. They might, however, take kindly to a innocuous stranger who came merely to enjoy the pleasures and opulence of the Imperium.          

Beneath the gown, she had donned a corset that thrust her chest upwards to create a truly shocking amount of cleavage, all of which the gown left bare. Smiling to herself, she remembered Isabela. Side by side, they would have been such a sight that they could have probably walked Fenris out of Tevinter with no one’s eyes ever leaving the deep valleys between those bountiful breasts. Even she was distracted by the amount of flesh left bare by the gown. Good. That would create just the right impression.

Her apparel certainly made an impression on Sebastian. When he laid eyes on her, his cheeks and ears flushed with the same deep crimson hue as her dress. That was quite gratifying. She had come to his quarters to tell him that they would soon be docking and that he ought to get dressed, but she found that he was already done so. It was a bit of a surprise to see him out of his gleaming white armor. True, he had been dressed in casual clothing throughout their sea voyage, but that plebian garb had not registered quite so powerfully as the clothing he wore now. He wore vivid blue that seemed to make his bright eyes all the more brilliant and every item of his attire was of such fine quality that he truly did look every inch the prince. Though it should not have surprised her that he could look so regal, it did. She had almost forgotten that he was royalty and was no doubt accustomed to dressing for events and receptions and all such affairs. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him and his did much the same as he saw her.

“You look… especially lovely.” He eyed her appreciatively as he spoke and punctuated his statement with an irrepressible clearing of his throat.

She laughed and shrugged carelessly. “I clean up okay. As do you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“The Magisters wield great power here and I would hate to provoke their ire by appearing to be disrespectful. Of course, were the choice mine, I would bring the Maker’s fury down upon them… but I imagine that would cause some small problems in retrieving Fenris.”

“Yes, I would imagine so,” she smiled. “Well, I just came to tell you to make yourself ready for going ashore, but I see that was entirely unnecessary on my part. I suppose I should go check on Varric or Merrill. I don’t suppose that either of those crazy kids is particularly adept at dressing for occasions that don’t involve massive amounts of bloodshed.”

Sebastian chuckled. “I would not underestimate Varric, were I you. I caught a glimpse of him earlier and I must say that he would not be out of place even in the finest homes in Starkhaven.”

“Really?” said Hawke, smiling crookedly. “Well, that's a sight to look forward to. Have you seen Merrill yet? How does she look?”

He shook his head. “I did not think it appropriate to go popping my head in on a young lady who may be in a state of… undress. I shall leave that to you.”

“Well, let’s hope she’s not in a state of undress, as you say; one of those enormous messenger birds alighted upon the upper decks and apparently Danarius will have some coaches waiting to receive us at the docks. The Captain said we should be docking within the hour.”

“In that case, you’d best go check on her.” Sebastian smiled impassively as he sat back on his cot, retrieving a book from amongst the many blankets and opening to a marked page. It was, she assumed, some sort of Chantry nonsense because it seemed to engross him quickly enough. Without a word, Hawke took her leave of them and swept hurriedly towards Merrill’s quarters.

“Merrill?” she called out from the corridor. “Are you decent?”

There was the faint sound of the lock clicking and the Merrill pulled the door open a bit and peered out, her cheeks flushed and her hair slightly mussed. “Oh Hawke!” she said, her voice tinged with an edge of panic. “I’m glad you’ve come. Oh, Maker—don’t you look lovely! Do come in. Make yourself comfortable.” She opened the door and beckoned Hawke into the room with a wave of her long, graceful hand.

As she sauntered into the room, Hawke felt an upswell of annoyance. “Andraste’s ass, Merrill—haven’t you decided what you’re going to wear?” The room was in a state of chaos with various shabby-looking dresses cast about on every surface. Merrill herself was wrapped in a dressing gown and seemed to be on the verge of panic. “We’ve been aboard this damned boat for weeks! Surely you must have given some thought as to what you were going to wear before the last moment!”

“Well, I had,” began Merrill shakily, frantically toying with the fabric of her dressing gown, “but then as I was finally dressed and staring at my reflection in the mirror, I realized that it was nowhere near grand enough for Tevinter! The way I looked, everyone would assume I was your servant! Or your slave, I suppose.” She looked down slightly and added, with a touch of bitterness in her voice, “Elves are slaves in Tevinter, aren’t they? I suppose no one will give a second thought to it if my clothes are a bit tattered.”

Hawke’s irritation abated and was replaced by what might have almost been called sympathy. She had not considered what this must be like for Merrill; to come to a place where all those like her were considered to be property instead of people. The continued enslavement of elves must be especially painful for one of the Dalish—especially one who was so devoted to elven history and pride. The Imperium must be a dreadful prospect for Merrill. And yet she had agreed to come anyway. Hawke felt her stomach twist.

Her voice strong with steely resolve, she said, “No, Merrill. No one will think that you’re a slave by the time I’m done with you. Come along; we’re going to play dress up. You’re going to wear the finest dress I own.”

Merrill shook her head anxiously. “Oh no, Hawke! I couldn’t! What if I got it dirty or it got a tear?”

“I really must insist,” said Hawke firmly, taking Merrill by the arm and dragging her out of the room.

Though she was small for a human, Hawke was still proportioned unlike an elf. It did not take long, however, for her to use her magic to dissemble and reassemble one of her gowns so that it would suit Merrill’s delicate figure. A trivial use for magic, but a valid one as far as she was concerned. While Hawke did so, Merrill fidgeted, pacing about the room and curiously poking at Hawke’s various jars of cosmetics. “Don’t worry,” said Hawke, seeing Merrill inquisitively sniffing some perfume, “We’ll have you smelling like a real daisy in a bit.”

“Do I smell awful?” asked Merrill, raising her eyebrows with alarm.

Hawke laughed. “No, of course not! But in society—high society, anyway—women douse themselves with all sorts of unnecessary concoctions. No one goes anywhere without reeking of flowers and citrus.” She looked down at the finished gown which lay out across the bed. “There now; let’s get you dressed first and then we can trouble ourselves with cosmetics.”

It was a lovely dress and Hawke felt a little sorry that she had had to remove so much fabric in order to make it suit an elf’s body; she would never be able to squeeze herself into that gown again even with the most clever magical stitchery. Her laments, however, were softened when she saw Merrill slip into the dress. Thanks to Hawke’s handiwork, the gown fit perfectly and accented the elf’s delicate body in a most pleasing way. Against the icy blue of the dress' jacquard fabric, Merrill’s skin seemed to glow like alabaster caught beneath of ray of sunshine. Looking down at the dress, Merrill tentatively caressed the fabric, her lips turning upwards in a sweet, unconscious smile. “Oh Hawke,” she whispered, “It’s lovely.”

“You make it lovely. Now, what do you say we cover you in more gems than a reasonable person would wear in a lifetime?" Having recieved a nod of assent from Merrill, Hawke fetched a ferrioniere with a suspended garnet pendant and positioned it so that the small jewel hung at the center of Merrill's forehead. It seemed to perfectly complement the elegant lines of the elf's vallasin. "There we are," Hawke said triumphantly. "Almost done." Lastly, Hawke removed the golden necklace that she herself wore and draped it carefully around the long pillar of Merrill's neck.

"Oh Hawke, you shouldn't," said Merrill as Hawke fastened the clasp. "What will you wear?"

“Oh, I don’t think that my bare throat will offend anyone,” smiled Hawke. “And in any case, it suits you.” Merrill blushed. “You look wonderful, Merrill. Now, what do you say to going to the top deck and waiting to meet the shore?”

Merrill nodded, her cheeks still flushed, and the two made their way into the open air.

The shore was closer now and the ship would soon make anchor. Leaving Merrill a few paces behind her, Hawke rushed to the side of the ship and clung with white-knuckled hands to the rails. The breeze was not overpowering that day, but she felt as though it chilled her to her very bone as she stood looking towards the unknown shoreline that rose before her. In the same moment, she felt both weightless and as if she had a tremendous weight pressing on her chest. In her ears she could hear the beating of her own heart and she could swear that she could feel that very heart beating frantically in her throat. With every moment they grew closer to shore and closer to Fenris. Her thoughts turned to him in a whirl that nearly overwhelmed her. How would he react when he saw her? Did he truly have no memory of her or, as it had with Varania, would his memory return? Surely he would not forgive her if he retained any recollection of what had passed between them. Would he, she wondered, prefer a life with Danarius to a life beside a woman who had so abominably betrayed his trust? She had tried to stifle such thoughts throughout their journey, but now, as the prospect of seeing her former companion grew near, she found that she could no longer avoid such unpleasant matters.

Even in spite of these fears and worries, she felt that her lips were contorted into a smile. Mingling with the fear and the anxiety was a joy the flooded her every vein. Soon Fenris would be in her possession. One way or another, she would get him back. It could not come soon enough.

A smaller vessel carried their party and their meager luggage to shore. Their small band all seemed affected by the incumbency of retrieving their lost companion. Varric, true to form, was not allowing whatever emotion he might be feeling to show, but he was making a good many comments upon the lack of composure displayed by the rest of the party. “Hawke,” he chided playfully, “You’re going to have to work on those tells of yours if you’re going to win over Danarius. Right now you couldn’t fool a blind nug.”

She smiled crookedly. “I know. And you needn’t worry, Varric—I’m quite the little actress when occasion calls for it.”

“Well, I hope so for all of our sakes; I’d hate to get slaughtered in a foreign, unknown land, because you can’t bullshit with the best of 'em.”

“Don’t worry Varric,” chimed in Sebastian. “It’s in the Maker’s hands now and, if our goal is just, his hand will guide us through.”

Varric stared blankly at Sebastian. “You’d better keep that Maker talk to a minimum in Tevinter, Chantry Boy. Even the most high-minded person has a hard time coping with that sanctimony.”

“Yes, Sebastian,” agreed Hawke gently. “Let’s all try to be on our least offensive behavior."

“Oh, I hope I don’t say something idiotic,” muttered Merrill, staring off fixedly at the shore as she spoke.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Daisy,” said Varric, smiling fondly. “The way you look, no one’s gonna care if you light the Archon’s robes on fire.”

She blushed. “Surely not, Varric. And I’d still be naked in my quarters if it weren’t for Hawke.”

“It’s a pity you ladies don’t have more occasion to dress up in Kirkwall,” smiled Sebastian. “I have never seen two more radiant young women in my life. Were I ever to doubt the Maker’s infallibility, I would need to do no more than conjure a memory of Hawke’s beauty on this day.” There was a glimmer in his eye as he looked in Hawke’s direction that she had caught sight of from time to time. She knew that he had not always been confined to the Chantry all of his life and the occasional heat in his gaze when he admired a pretty woman was evidence that a trace of his former wildness still lingered within him. Such a look had only infrequently been turned in her direction, which could perhaps be attributed to the fact that she had been committed to another man for so long. Over the past weeks however, Hawke had become more conscious of Sebastian. He had always been susceptible to her flirtations and therefore she knew that he had always found her attractive, but lately he had shown her greater attention before and she could not shake the suspicion that, if she intended to do so, she would be able to seduce him. It was a heady thing… but unsettling.

“You flatter me, Sebastian,” she said coolly, glancing carelessly down at the white moons of her fingernails. “But I’ll have to ask that you only conjure my image under the most chaste of circumstances.”

“By all means, Hawke,” he drawled pleasantly. “I am a man of faith, after all. But may I not still appreciate the beauty of the Maker’s creation?”

Varric exhaled heavily. “If you two are done flirting, we are about to take on the Imperium. A little focus couldn’t hurt.”

“True,” said Hawke gravely. “It’s a dangerous task ahead of us. We must always be on alert for any sign of danger. If at any point you feel that the mission has become too hazardous, then you may feel free to leave. But know that I will not leave until Fenris is returned to me.” The others nodded silently.

“We’ve got your back, Hawke,” Varric assured her.

“We could hardly abandon you after all you’ve done for us,” agreed Merrill.

Sebastian nodded resolutely in agreement with the others and, feeling a cool flood of determination filling the air, they rode on in silence until they reached the docks.

True to the word that Danarius had sent, there was a fleet of attendants waiting for them. Danarius must have given his hirelings and slaves a description of Hawke because they knew her at once and came rushing to whisk her to the four large carriages that awaited them on the road. It was unsettling to walk in the presence of slaves. They were so submissive, seeming to scurry along the ground at the feet of their social betters. There were seven or so elves, all scarcely clad, that seemed to serve no other function than bowing profusely. At the side of the carriage, however, was a mage who was clearly of some importance.

Like Danarius, this mage radiated an aura of haughty nonchalance. Unlike Danarius, however, he was young and looked as Hawke had imagined magisters while she was in her youth. He was tall, a quality she admired in a man, with shoulder-length flaxen hair that was pulled back from his lean, attractive face. His body, even underneath his robes, was visibly well-made. His arms were exposed by the cut of the Tevinter robes and the muscles of his tanned biceps bulged slightly as he folded his arms across his broad chest. He was, in many ways, all that Hawke would have once admired in a man. Now, however, she felt nothing but distaste for the mages of the Imperium. She felt a cold disdain for all the power-mad mages who allowed slavery to exist within their land. The hypocrisy of this sentiment, given her past actions, was not lost on her.

The mage strode forward a few paces as they approached, smiling broadly with unveiled conceit in his eyes. “And you, I suppose, are the Champion of Kirkwall,” he drawled, surveying Hawke with a slow, calculating glance that trailed lazily over her entirety. She did not flinch beneath the weight of his stare but instead played into the clear display of attraction and appraisal. She strode lazily towards him with the sensuality that she had spent so many years cultivating. She imagined this mage as Anders, superimposing the face of her former lover over this unknown man’s.

“You suppose correctly,” she said, extending her hand to him even as she dipped slightly into the faintest impression of a curtsy. “You may call me Elena, of course; we are in Kirkwall no longer.”

“It’s a pleasure, my lady Elena,” he crooned saccharinely. “I am Flavius, apprentice to my lord Danarius. I will be escorting you in this carriage just behind me. Your companions may follow in the chaise. Unless, of course, you would like your concubine to join us in the carriage…?” His eyes flitted from Hawke to Merrill and back again.

Hawke turned her head slightly and looked in Merrill’s direction. She read the elf’s expression and saw some measure of surprise there but not the slightest indication of wounded pride. Perhaps being considered a concubine was preferable to being called a servant or a slave. Even so, the implication that Merrill was her property rankled and Hawke found that she had the desire to dispute it. “Alas,” she replied pleasantly, “Merrill is a free elf and only stays with me of her own free will. She is, however, my lover.” Gently, she reached out and took Merrill’s hand in her own. The elf seemed startled by the contact but the squeezed back and stepped closer to Hawke, pressing their bodies lightly together. It was a lie, of course, but Hawke supposed that there was no harm in having an excuse for keeping one of her companions at her side; it case of sudden attack, having Merrill beside her would surely be of use.

“A pity,” sighed Flavius. “I suppose it is unlikely that you would share her in that case?” He continued to eye Merrill with possessive hope in his dark eyes.

“I’m afraid not,” said Hawke, smiling charmingly.

“Fair enough,” he shrugged. “Shall we make our way to the palace, ladies?”

Flavius helped Merrill and then Hawke into the carriage while allowing Sebastain and Varric to fend for themselves. It occurred to Hawke that he didn’t have terribly good manners and she wondered if everyone in Tevinter would be so informal. She vaguely hoped so, given that her upbringing in Ferelden had hardly prepared her for high society functions. Even without manners, however, Flavius was clearly making every effort to ingratiate himself to Hawke. Once in the carriage, they conversed easily about the journey. Though it pained her, Hawke forced herself to say nothing of the matter which interested her most. She knew that the surest way to gain access to Fenris was to appear to be completely disinterested in him and so, with all the charm and lightness that she could muster, she chattered on agreeably with Danarius’ apprentice.

Sitting beside Hawke, Merrill was largely silent. She had not released Hawke’s hand, however, and, as the carriage jostled on towards their destination, Merrill slunk closer to Hawke’s side and nestled her head against her shoulder. It was an odd sort of closeness that was without romantic intent. It occurred to Hawke after a while that perhaps Merrill felt some form of gratitude. Gratitude for the dress or gratitude that Hawke had not allowed Flavius to mistake herl for a servant or a slave. Hawke could only guess at what Merrill’s feelings might be, but she felt the girl’s growing trust and affection. It was odd and unsettling, but Hawke felt a sort of contented warmth welling within her. She wondered if that was the sort of sensation that arose from doing things for others without hope of personal gain. If it was—if this is what it meant to be kind—then she would have to make a point to do it more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before Fenris reappears. Excited?
> 
> Again, so sorry that it's taking this long to get to the point.I thought that it might be a good idea to deal with Merrill prior to the gang's arrival in Tevinter. After all, she is an elf and thus in quite an awkward position in the Imperium. It didn't feel quite right to ignore that.
> 
> Flavius is, of course, an OC. I needed someone to fill Hadriana's role and so I just conjured someone up.


	5. Aggregio Pavalli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius welcomes Hawke and her little friends to his humble abode.

> _"He played himself_  
>  _Didn’t need me to give him hell_  
>  _He could be cool and cruel to you and me_  
>  _Knew we’d put up with anything_  
>  _I want to hurt him_  
>  _I want to give him pain_  
>  _I’m a roman candle_  
>  _My head is full of flames.”_  
>  -Roman Candle, Elliott Smith

Flavius announced casually that they were drawing near to Danarius’ estate and Hawke began, with greater attention to detail, to gaze out the window of the carriage. The city streets of Minrathous were unlike those of Lothering or even Kirkwall. The facades of the buildings boasted an opulence that even Viscount’s Keep could not begin to rival. The stones from which the buildings had been constructed were of the purest white and, beneath the afternoon sun, they glowed orange. Along the sidewalks were numerous patios and archways which featured elaborate pillars, some of which had been carved into the forms of fantastic beasts or shameless women with heaving bosoms. Traversing the sidewalks and crossing the streets were more people than Hawke had ever seen in one place together. She found herself leaning so near to the window that her nose was almost pressed to the glass. She thought she heard Flavius laugh at her enthusiasm, but she was so drawn in by the spectacle of the city that she could not bring herself to look away.

Though she did not wish to think of him, she could not help but think how much Anders would love to lay eyes of these streets. Unlike in Ferelden or the Free Marches, mages walked freely in the world without fear of Templars. Here, there were mages flaunting their staffs and wearing extravagant robes trimmed with lush furs. Here, mages laughed with each other in broad daylight. Here, freedom for mages was a reality and not just an abstract thought whispered about in the dark of the bedchamber. She resolved to tell Anders about it when she got home.

If the city itself was not enough of a testament to the freedom of mages in the Imperium, then Danarius’ estate certainly was. They were welcomed through the tall walls which encircled the property before crossing a large bridge which arced over a wide moat. Across the moat’s surface grew fragrant water lilies even though winter drew near. Along the water’s edge stretched a thicket of blossoming flowers of purples, blues, and glittering whites. Above the flowers towered numerous despondent willows. Circling above the trees and nestled throughout their branches were pale songbirds, all singing merrily in an eerie and wonderful chorus. Hawke found herself holding her breath as they rolled down a paved path towards the palace which rose before them.

She felt acutely the ridiculousness of her excitement. She was not here, after all, for beautiful scenery or luxurious palaces. She was not here to socialize or delight in her freedom from oppression; she was here only for Fenris. And yet she found herself being taken in by the splendor of the scene. As she admired all she saw, she heard Flavius chirping on about the history of the estate and about what had recently changed or been improved. Apparently the grounds were always being altered as Danarius’ specific interests and tastes changed. Just recently the gladiatorial ring had been converted to house an artificial jungle and several exotic birds which had been imported from far beyond Rivain.

Hawke was scarcely listening, but Flavius’ voice was like a soothing lullaby to accompany the visual beauty of the place. Her heart beat a bit slower and she felt herself calmed even as she wanted to squirm with excitement as the carriage pulled up to the grand entrance of the palace.

Like the city, its exterior walls were looming and white. The veranda was lined with enormous statues, all of which were being overtaken by vines. Off in the distance, Hawke thought she heard a waterfall. Perhaps there was a concealed garden beside the house. “It is wonderful, isn’t it?” remarked Flavius. “Danarius has such an eye for design and he has his hands in all of the upkeep of the estate. He doesn’t allow for any mistakes.”

“It shows,” Hawke said, stepping out of the carriage with the help of a footman. “I’ve never seen anything so splendid in all my life. I don’t believe I have ever so greatly loathed the simplicity of Ferelden.”

“You’ve been too long deprived, sweet Elena,” chuckled Flavius, offering her his arm. He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “We intend to spoil you.”

She smiled coyly, not shying from his touch. “I’ve gone too long unspoilt,” she murmured, still keeping a firm grasp on Merrill with one hand while she rested the other on Flavius’ forearm. Varric and Sebastian had seemingly appeared from nowhere beside them and both had, mercifully, the good sense to remain silent.

Flavius’ face was very near to Hawke’s and his eyes were piercing as she met his gaze unwaveringly. She wondered if he might kiss her and indeed he might have had a voice not called out, “Flavius, you are such a rude child—do you intend to keep our guest outside all day?”

Hawke let out a laugh of feigned delight when she looked towards the entrance and saw Danarius standing in the doorway. “Danarius!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “I’m honored by the reception.” She released herself from both Merrill and Flavius and made her way towards the Magister. As she strode towards him, he smiled beneficently at her. Hawke was acutely aware of his gaze and found herself blushing beneath it. In spite of the fact that she had no love for Danarius, she was now, more than she had ever been in her life, aware that he was a man of great position and power. In Kirkwall, he had been but one man like any other and she had, even then, bowed before his might. Now, surrounded by the evidence of his prominence and power, she wondered if she would have the conviction to follow through with her plan. As her lips parted into a wide, becoming grin, she gulped back her nerves.

“I assure you, Serrah Hawke, that the pleasure is all mine. It is an honor indeed to meet the woman who shattered the obstinate will of my little wolf in a way that not even I could manage.” He kissed the knuckles of the hand she offered and, at his touch and the merest mention of Fenris, she felt as if she had been stabbed just beneath the ribs by the sharpest of daggers. Even as she laughed lightly, she felt breathless.

“I do hope he’s not giving you any more trouble,” she said, smiling coquettishly.

“None whatsoever since I dipped into his memories. He’s as dear a boy as ever he was.” Danarius smiled fondly at the thought of it. “Now, my dear, why not join me in the parlor for a drink? Your companions will be shown to their rooms so they can relax. It surely must have been an uncomfortable journey.”

She shrugged, revealing none of the anxiety that was fluttering in her heart. “I found that the prospect of Tevinter mitigated any misery that there was in travel.”

He laughed. “Indeed? I am glad to hear it. And who are your lovely guests?”

Hawke glanced over her shoulder to see Merrill flanked by Varric and Sebastian. Sebastian stood perfectly upright, his legs shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped behind his back as though he were a soldier standing for inspection. His brilliant eyes were fixed dead ahead and his entire aspect bespoke dignity and strength. Varric’s lips were twisted in a crooked smile and he looked as calm and unshaken as ever he did. Merrill, however, seemed to have become quite nervous without Hawke’s hand to hold. Her light blush and wide, glittering eyes made her only appear more innocent and sweet and the shyness suited her well. The grandeur of her apparel made her look not out of place in the opulent surroundings. Hawke smiled at her companions and began to make introductions along the line without much formality. “This is Sebastian Vael, the Crown Prince of Starkhaven.” Sebastian bowed slightly, a gesture which Danarius had the good form to return. “This is Varric Terthas, of house Tethras and the Merchant’s Guild.” Varric smiled broadly and nodded in acknowledgement. “And this lovely creature is Merrill,” said Hawke with pride in her voice.

“Your partner, I presume?” Danarius said slowly, smiling at Merrill tenderly. “You are a fortunate woman, Hawke, to have such a lovely companion.”

To Hawke’s very great surprise, Merrill glanced up towards Danarius through lowered lashes and muttered, in her lilting tones, “The good fortune is all mine, I assure you. Hawke is an incredible woman.”

Danarius raised one brow and looked to Hawke with a smile on his lips. “Well, she is at that, isn’t she? Now Hawke, what do you say you and I adjourn to my parlor whilst your companions take some rest after the long journey?”

“How could I have any objections to such a proposition?”

Danarius placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her with him while a number of elven slaves rushed towards her companions, presumably to serve as their guides.

The parlor itself was intimate yet clearly decorated by a man with expensive tastes. The walls were wood-paneled and adorned with detailed engravings that depicted important events in the history of the Imperium. There was a large sofa and two elegant chairs, all richly upholstered, as well as several delicate tables and a number of marble sculptures which glowered seductively at Hawke as she entered the room. Danarius made sure that Hawke was situated before taking a seat himself. All the while, he was smiling brightly, though his eyes still held a lingering trace of coldness. She chose to sit on the sofa and he positioned himself beside her. Quite consciously, she made certain that her body showed no signs of the fear and revulsion she felt in her heart. Rather, she continued to smile demurely while allowing a flirtatious twinkle to flicker in her eyes.

“It’s seldom that I have the opportunity to receive such a lovely woman into my home,” said Danarius as he settled back into the soft cushions of the couch. “Now, would you care for some tea, my dear girl?” he said fondly, beckoning a servant forward. Around the walls of the parlor there were several elves, all clad in gossamer robes through which their lithe bodies were clearly visible. On their thin, wide-eyed faces were identical expressions of subservience and docility. At the merest sign from their master, they seemed to come to life, rushing forward to provide whatever he may desire. Hawke eyed them pitilessly, seeming to admire their beauty.

Hawke smiled crookedly. “Now, you’ll no doubt consider me a Fereldan clod, but it’s been a long journey and I must admit that I may need a drink with a tad more kick than tea.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckled “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

She leaned back in her chair, fixing him with amber eyes that seemed to smolder like embers. “You wouldn’t happen to have any Agreggio Pavalli, would you? I’m afraid I’ve developed something of a taste for it.”

“You have excellent taste,” he noted, his eyes sparkling. He snapped his fingers and with that a servant was off at a trot to fetch the desired beverage. “Now, how have you been Hawke? I’ve been listening for news of you since our meeting and was pleased to discover that you’ve been moving up in the world. I always knew you were a woman of sound judgment and great skill.”

She shrugged, allowing herself to look modest. “I’ve enjoyed my time in Kirkwall thus far. There’s been plenty of opportunity to prove myself and, of course, to gain prominence. Sadly, in the Free Marches and my homeland, being a mage has always been something of a liability.” She smiled teasingly as she added, “I have found that the proper amount of coin placed into the appropriate hands, however, secures my freedom.”

Danarius nodded and looked at her with searching eyes. “Have you ever considered making a transition to the Imperium? Surely you could find great success among like-minded individuals?”

“I suppose,” she drawled thoughtfully, “though I have already spent so many years establishing myself in Kirkwall. It seems a waste to throw away all those many hours spent slaughtering Qunari if only to move to another land and begin again from scratch. I think that I may prefer being a rather large fish in an impossibly small pond.” She grinned. “I hardly think I could make the same impression here in Tevinter, surrounded by great Magisters such as yourself.”

“Ah, you flatter me, dear Hawke—which is all very well, as I do enjoy flattery.”

“As do we all.”

Over Hawke’s shoulder, Danarius spotted something and smiled. “Ah, the wine is here. I think you’ll find the young man bearing it most extraordinary.

Her face was even but Hawke felt her heart thunder within her almost to the point of bursting. Her breath caught dryly in her throat and her blood thundered in her ears. She did not wish to turn too quickly for fear that she would seem overly eager to see the man that she had given over. Rather, she cocked a brow at Danarius and turned her head slowly, all the while feeling her nerves flaming at the prospect of seeing him again.

But it was not him. It was not Fenris. The disappointment was so sharp and biting that she feared she might cry. Yet she moderated her emotions and surveyed the slave with attentive eyes. “Well,” she said in a low, awe-filled voice, “he is lovely, isn’t he?” The elf stood before her, still and clearly accustomed to being admired in this way. It was true that he was especially beautiful. His nose was straight and well-defined. His eyes were of an extraordinary violet color which was rare even in elves and those glorious eyes shone like gems from his dark face. He was dressed differently from the other elven slaves and adorned far more elegantly than they. Around his waist, strategically knotted to conceal his genitals, was a loincloth of gauzy gold. His lean, lightly-muscled figure was shown to full advantage and his skin had been rubbed with oil which set him glistening in the golden glow of the late afternoon. His neck had been hung with heavy golden necklaces and chains which were all encrusted with a rainbow of gemstones. Clearly he was precious to Danarius; Hawke wondered if Fenris had been cast aside entirely in favor of this new man. “What do you call him?” she asked.

“His mother named him Svass and I rather liked the feel of it upon my tongue so I have allowed him to keep his given name.” He then turned, smiling, to Svass and said, “Beloved, do pour my guest some wine, won’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” the slave murmured, keeping his eyes docilely down-turned as he went about his work. Hawke deliberately didn’t thank him for the glass of wine he gave to her. She whirled it in her glass, inhaling the rich fragrance, and took the smallest sip. “Lovely,” she acknowledged. Svass filled her glass more and then gave a second glass to Danarius. Once they both had their beverages, Svass stepped off to the side and stood, waiting.

Hawke drank deeply, using her full mouth as an excuse not to speak. Svass made her uneasy though he had, of course, done nothing to offend her. Even so, she could not help but wonder if Fenris had ever been objectified in this manner and if, indeed, he were still forced to walk around wearing little more than his skin. She knew, from what she had been told in the past, that Danarius had used Fenris to serve wine to guests in the past. Had he once slunk into the room, nearly bare and shining with fragrant oils that had been carefully rubbed over the taut muscles of his body? Hawke felt her stomach lurch at the thought.

“How long have you kept this one?” she asked casually once she had swallowed.

“The wine or the boy?” he asked carelessly.

“The boy, of course,” she said with the merest hint of a smile.

“He’s been with me for six or so years now—since he was fourteen, I believe. Have you any servants in your keeping, Hawke? Or is that not in keeping with the barbarian spirit of Ferelden?”

She chuckled. “It is very much out of keeping with the Fereldan way of life to keep servants. Even our nobles boast incessantly about their self-sufficiency. Of course, anyone with means keeps a number of elven servants to cook and clean. We haven’t nearly so many as you have, but we have a fair share.” She took another sip when something occurred to her. Smiling broadly she added, “Oh! It just came to me that you might be familiar with one of the elves in my keeping—a dear little blonde creature named Orana. She was once in Hadriana’s possession.”

Danarius nodded. “Ah yes, poor Hadriana. I hear that my little wolf made fast work of her. With your aid of course.”

“Yes, that’s true,” owned Hawke with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I am sorry for robbing you of your apprentice but, as I’m sure you’ll understand, it was in my best interest to keep Fenris placated. There was little to be gained then from losing him as an ally.” She sighed wistfully. “He was such a useful little friend to have.”

“He is rather skilled, isn’t he?” grinned Danarius. “Do you ever find yourself missing the lad?”

 “I find that the gold you sent my way rather perfectly filled the holes he left in my heart.”

“I admire your pragmatism,” laughed Danarius. “If you ever do make the decision to join us in the Imperium, then I would be more than willing to take you as my apprentice. I imagine that you would quite enjoy the games we get up to on this estate.”

“I have no doubt,” she said, waving Svass over to top off her glass. “My own games back in Kirkwall have gotten so dull.”

“With a companion as lovely as your Merrill, I struggle to imagine that being the case.”

“She is a new acquisition,” said Hawke carelessly. “I left my former lover in Kirkwall. He didn’t hold with blood magic so I found I could no longer tolerate his sanctimonious presence in my home.” She stared off thoughtfully and added, “Though he did have clever fingers. I shall miss that.”

“You are more than allowed to borrow any of my toys,” Danarius said, smiling blithely. “I think you’ll find that they are all well trained in the arts of… entertainment.”

She smiled impishly. “I may well take you up on that.”

“You may have just such an opportunity this evening,” he said. “In honor of your arrival, I have summoned many of the most prominent and resplendent mages in Tevinter to a gala this evening. I must admit that I was rather eager to show you off. Your exploits with my Fenris did not go unnoticed here in Tevinter and I think you’ll find that you’re quite the object of intrigue here.”

“I’m flattered that anyone has taken an interest at all in little old me.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find people very interested. I’m delighted to be the one to introduce you to society.”

“I must confess to feeling the tiniest bit nervous,” she admitted, bowing her head slightly.

“You needn’t be,” he assured her. “You’ll be the highlight of the evening. Of course, I will be expecting you to be your sparkling best, so why don’t we get you to your suite so that you can take a little rest before my slaves come to ready you for the festivities?”

“I could use a little sleep,” she said, nodding politely.

“Meiri!” he called, speaking to one of the servants who stood against the rear of the room. “Escort Mistress Hawke to her suite.” He turned back to Hawke. “Meiri’s a lovely girl; you can use her before bed if you desire.”

“Thank you.” Before she took her leave, Hawke curtsied slightly.

It was a relief to be free of the Magister’s presence; Hawke still kept her face free of her true emotion but she no longer was forced to smile and flatter and pretend that there could be no greater pleasure in the world than being cared for by a battalion of slaves. As they moved through the palace to where Hawke would be situated, Meiri said nothing and Hawke said nothing to her. It was not an awkward silence, however, as the slave girl was undoubtedly used to being ignored by those in her company.

The suite itself was beautiful, large and airy. The bedroom was dominated by an enormous bed and branching off that room was a small sitting room as well as a bathroom and an overwhelmingly large walk-in closet. There was also an elegant balcony which looked out over a flowering garden. The smell of some unknown exotic fruit wafted up from the garden as she stood on the balcony inhaling the fresh air deeply. She felt calm now—the calm before the storm. An emptiness filled her in those moments as she wondered what the coming days would bring. A mounting dread seemed be on the horizon and she enjoyed the hollowness that was free from fear or worry. The coming night would be disastrous enough.

She allowed herself to drift off and think of nothing as she watched the play of shadows across the sandy-colored stones of the courtyard. The leaves of the trees colored the dappled sunlight a pale green. Thoughtlessly, she smiled to herself as she heard the joyous song of some distant bird. It was then that something crossed her line of sight, drawing the focus of her eyes.

He was thinner than before, some of his muscle having wasted away. Around his neck was a heavy collar that seemed in danger of breaking his long neck and, suspended from that collar, a golden leash that glinted in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Danarius held the other end of the leash lazily in his hand; there was no fear that his pet would bolt. Fenris crawled at his Master’s heels obediently, his bare knees scraping across the stones as he lurched forward.

Hawke turned, fled into her room, and promptly vomited into a chamber pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I had to make up some characters. Obviously, the Imperium is based on the Roman Empire, but I didn't want to give slaves the same latinate names as the mages. So, given that Fenris' name is Norse in origin, I opted for the same sort of naming system for the others. (I used this dictionary for ideas: http://www.yorku.ca/inpar/language/English-Old_Norse.pdf.)
> 
> Also, if you hadn't guessed from the little epigraphs at the start of some of these chapters, I was listening to a lot of Elliott Smith while writing this.


	6. Laughter and Forgetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our band of heroes finds themselves at a formal affair.

Evening came after an hour or two of feverish sleep. When she woke, Hawke found that beads of cold sweat had arisen on her skin and that she was surrounded by a small cadre of female slaves, all of whom were very lovely. Hawke shifted in the sheets, gazing uncertainly, before finding the will to leave the warmth of the bed and allow herself to be made ready by the slaves. In all honesty, she would have preferred to do it quite on her own, but she thought that there was the chance that Danarius may be offended or suspicious were she to reject his well-meant offering of attendants.

As the elves prepared a warm bath for her, Hawke stood uncertainly and began to feel the weight of silence. When the quiet had become downright oppressive, Hawke began to chatter on mindlessly about how she had never seen a group of such attentive young women. The slaves seemed flattered by such remarks, which saddened Hawke somewhat, and yet she continued to do all she could to compliment the girls. It seemed to have a positive effect on the room because, as she settled into the bath, a red-haired girl with olive-hued eyes ventured to ask if Hawke had really been Fenris’ master in the Free Marches. Immediately, one of the other girl’s chided the redhead for asking such an impertinent question, but Hawke laughed lightly and assured them that it was a perfectly acceptable question.

She wasn’t quite sure how such a question should be answered, however. In reality, she had not been, by any stretch of the imagination, been Fenris’ master. Part of her wanted to reveal this to the girls who encircled her, washing her limbs and combing her hair. She hoped that Fenris’ story might inspire some hope that their lives might be different someday. She wanted to tell them that one of their own had escaped and lived as a free man at least for a little while and that he might be free still had it not been for her. She fought the urge to confess, however, knowing that there was danger in confiding too much in these girls. Hawke remembered the story that Fenris had told her about the Fog Warriors; in spite of the great esteem in which he held them, he had betrayed them at his master’s order. There was simply no possible way that Hawke could speak one word to these girls that she would not whisper directly into Danarius’ own ear.

In lieu of being replying honestly, Hawke shrugged and said casually, “Yes, he was in my keeping. He grew to be a bit of a burden, however, and I was more than happy to return him to Danarius.”

“He didn’t used to be so much trouble,” sighed one of the girls. “It was the markings, I think.” She was hushed by one of the others and Hawke had the good sense not to force the conversation too much in that direction. Still, it pained her not to speak of him. Every moment her thoughts were full of him and her throat burned to speak his name and ask where he was and how he was doing. As horrible as it had been to see him down in the gardens looking so very low and degraded, Hawke was relieved know that he was, at the very least, alive and whole. A part of her had been suspicious that Danarius had lied. As long as Fenris lived, there was a chance that she could atone for her past misdeeds.

As they helped her from her bath, the elves began to talk to her of other things. They asked her about her journey and if she travelled often and if it was true that mages were kept confined in other nations. Every answer was calculated to make her seem as much aligned with the Imperium as possible; it was an exhausting conversation and Hawke eagerly awaited its end.

While she sat on a stool in front of a large, ornate mirror, the redheaded slave girl brushed a fine, translucent glitter across Hawke’s brows and cheekbones. It was arresting, giving her an almost angelic appearance. It was then that something occurred to her. “Tell me, do you think that the black and silver gown I’ve laid out will do? You all will know better than I what ladies wear here in Tevinter.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” said one of the girls, smiling sweetly. “Master sent along something for you to wear. He does that sometimes with guests that he finds especially deserving.”

Hawke smiled in spite of suddenly being overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. “Well, that’s highly flattering. Though I sincerely doubt that I am much out of the common way.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Mistress,” the girl insisted.

 Hawke smiled demurely and bowed her head, sure that if she opened her mouth to speak then her words would shake with brimming tears. Only once she had mastered herself did she say, “You wouldn’t mind my trying it on, would you?”

“Of course not, Mistress!” piped one of the girls, as though the prospect that Hawke’s behavior could offend was the most ludicrous of all suggestions. She rushed off and retrieved a dress which had been hanging on the back of the door and which Hawke had not even noticed until that very moment. Proudly, she held it up for Hawke’s inspection.

Indeed, it was a lovely dress. The fabric—silk, it was called—had gained popularity in Orlais as well as the Imperium but had proved ill-suited for the rusticity of Ferelden and had never really become common there. As a result, Hawke had never worn silk as she was growing up and had not taken to the fabric while living in Kirkwall. She was still very much a barbarian at heart. Still, as the creamy-white cloth caught the golden glow of the lamps, Hawke began to wonder why it was that she had never allowed herself to wear something that was so very lovely. In fact, she held her breath just a little as she held out her hand, gently running it across the fabric so smooth that she almost could have mistaken it for a liquid. “This is beautiful,” she sighed, smiling more genuinely than she would have thought possible. “Your master really is too kind to me.”

One of the girls nodded enthusiastically. “He’s a very generous man,” she said proudly, as though it were the greatest pleasure in the world to be the property of such a man. Hawke’s heart fractured a little. “Shall we help you into it?” Hawke nodded.

The gown was open in the back making it impossible for Hawke to wear a corset or even a breast band. Beneath the sumptuous fabric she wore nothing more than some delicate smallclothes that had been sent along with the dress. As the slaves helped her into it, Hawke began to wonder if this was all merely a prank designed to get her to show up to a spectacular party wearing next to nothing. Still, she felt splendid in it even before she glanced at herself in the mirror. It felt as if she had been clothed in mist. When she did turn to survey herself in the looking glass, Hawke unconsciously gasped.

It was a shocking sight. The white dress and the light, glittering make-up which highlighted her face all joined together to create the impression that she was from another world entirely. It seemed infinitely wrong that she should look so wonderful while feeling as if she was rotted to the core.

“You’ve done an amazing job,” she said, looking around the room with a small smile on her lips.

“You’re kind to say so mistress,” they chirped in unison, bowing their heads.

She turned to look back at the mirror, blushing to see herself again. While it was true that she had worn revealing clothes before and while it was also true that the dress was terribly flattering, there was no denying that she also looked quite naked. Somehow the pale silk, grazing across her hipbones and gently veiling her breasts, made her appear even more naked than if she had worn nothing but her skin. It was no more than an illusion of clothing. A beautiful illusion, but no matter. And after the initial shock had passed, it began to irk her that she looked so little like herself. Her own face was decorated with an innocence that was not her own. She shifted uneasily and looked away, searching for something to add to her raiment that would be her own.

“Can you hand me that red ribbon?” she said to no one slave in particular. “The one that came tied around the flowers Danarius sent.” The ribbon appeared instantaneously in her hand. Hawke tied it around her wrist as her only adornment. “Done,” she announced.

“You look lovely, Mistress Hawke.”

“You truly do.”

“We’ll send for Master; he’ll be your escort tonight.”

“Wonderful,” said Hawke, grinning. She was looking forward to it. Each moment that passed led her closer to the moment when she would learn Fenris’ whereabouts and, the moment she had that information, she would do all in her power to destroy Danarius. She wondered how she would do it when the time came; she hoped that she would have the chance to make his death slow and torturous. Perhaps, if he was ready for that sort of thing, she would let Fenris do it. Either way, she would take great pleasure in watching the foul glint of life drain from the Magister’s malicious face.

It was not long before that very face appeared in the doorway to Hawke’s room. Danarius was clad in robes of silk as well, though mercifully his were not as revealing as those he had given to her. When he entered her room, his pale eyes took her in fully. Oh, how she hated those eyes—as light and hollow as those of a fish. She wanted to pry them from his skull. This hostility—this strange urge to strike out against a man who had not hurt her in any direct sense—was new for Hawke. She was almost beginning to enjoy the acidic burn of the hatred that rose within her. “Danarius,” she said silkily, shifting her hip to the side so that her gown slid sensuously over her skin. “Will you be ashamed to be seen with me?” Her playful pout might almost have been a smirk had her lips lifted but a fraction at the corners.

“I have never been more ashamed of my own age and ugliness than I am at this moment,” he said in his usual oily tones. She laughed, taking the arm he offered to her. He glanced down at the ribbon she had tied around her wrist and smiled whimsically.

“What a lovely notion that was, dear Hawke. Here in Tevinter, we have a tradition that, when you have accepted someone as the master of your heart, you don a red ribbon about your wrist.”         

She smiled. She had known that something like that that existed in Rivain but had been unfamiliar with the Tevinter practice. “While I am here, you are the master not only of my heart, but all of me.” Her voice was low, almost as if it were a breath. But she knew that he heard her. She knew it from the softening of his eyes and the tightening of his hold on her arm. His awareness of her body, so near to his own, was increasing. Perhaps, with time and skill, she would find herself alone with him. There was no doubt in her mind that he preferred men, but she had some small hope that she could make him prefer her. It was not conceit (well, not entirely) that made her think so; it was the heat in his gaze when he looked upon her and the way that, as they made there way to the festivities, he kept her pulled close to his side so that the side of her hip brushed continually against his thigh.

When Hawke entered the room, her first thought was how very glad she was that Danarius had not dressed her in this gown as a practical joke. Though there were quite a few women wearing the sort of heavy, ornate dresses she had brought from Kirkwall, most of the younger, more nubile women wore light gowns like the one she wore now. Most, granted, had chosen to decorate themselves with great amounts of jewelry and with ornate hairstyles which surely must have weighed heavily on their heads. Still, Hawke was glad that she had opted for as much simplicity as she could muster. To both her pleasure and discomfort, the entire congregation stared fixedly at her as Danarius led her, with great pomp, to the head table.

The table where they would be seated was long and narrow and positioned atop a platform which overlooked the room. On the floor itself were small, circular tables for the guests of lesser importance. At the center of the room was a cleared area where there would, presumably, be dancing later on in the evening. Off to the corner, on quite a large stage, were a great many musicians who played their instruments expertly and lent a great deal of sophistication to the whole affair. In Kirkwall, Hawke had never been to anything so grand. The mere fact that such an occasion was in honor of her coming was a bit daunting. Still, she felt prepared for the evening. She was beautiful and she was composed and, if the occasion called for it, she was more than willing to kill everyone in the room with a healthy dose of chain lightning.

Everyone stood behind their seats, silent and waiting for Danarius to address the gathering. Once he and Hawke reached the head table and were in their proper places, Danarius looked out over the crowd with the smuggest of smiles across his face. He had never looked more sinister in all his life, Hawke wagered. He allowed the silence to remain until it seemed to hum through the crowd, pressing in on their waiting ears. At last he raised his hands, the sleeves of his robes seeming like the wings of some wretched bird of prey. Hawke looked at him with admiration glowing in her amber eyes. She held her breath, anxious to hear his words. Eager for the silence to shatter.

“Welcome, honored guests,” he began. “Your presence this evening thrills me in ways you can hardly imagine. Now, lest you begin to worry, I shan’t rattle on for too long and leave you panting for a meal, but I simply must introduce you all to the marvelous young mage who is the reason for the reason for tonight’s festivities.” He gestured in Hawke’s direction without looking at her and she felt every other set of eyes in the room turn to her. She rolled back her shoulders, standing straighter, and twisted her lips into a knowing smile. “Elena Hawke, the scion of the Amell line and the Champion of Kirkwall,” he said grandly, making her sound far more important than she had ever felt in her life. “You’ve no doubt heard the salacious rumors and, I can assure you, they are all very true.” There was a ripple of laughter throughout the room and Hawke allowed herself to look vaguely embarrassed but nevertheless amused. “I am so pleased to add her to my collection of jewels and I urge you all to take the opportunity to speak with her this evening. She has no end of amusing tales, I assure you.” Then, with an air of confidentially, as though he were whispering a secret, he added, “And, if you’re all very good, perhaps we can convince her to stay with us permanently.” There was another plague of tremulous laughter. “Now, before your hunger gets the better of you and drives you to revolt, I will bring my little speech to a close.” Grinning broadly, he added, his voice booming, “Let the night begin! Maker help us all.”

Like a flood, slaves filled the floor, causing food to appear on tables and wine to fill goblets. Hawke noticed, to her surprise, that the slaves had been dressed in the same garb which she had once seen on desire demons. Once she gave it a moment’s thought, it was perhaps not so surprising; according to Fenris, there wasn’t a mage in Tevinter who would be unfamiliar with such demons. Surely it was amusing to them to see such demons seemingly snatched from the Fade in order to serve food and drink. She turned to the side and smiled at Danarius. “I do love how you’ve dressed them.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Are you familiar with such creatures yourself?”

“More than familiar,” she grinned.

He laughed. “I thought as much. Clever girl.” He then waved at the goblets that sat in front of them. “Aggregio. In your honor, of course.”

She sipped from her goblet and smiled in appreciation. There was, as she swallowed, the tiniest tremor of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. It was all so easy, so simple, that she was beginning to suspect that Danarius was planning to kill her. Perhaps as proof of what happens to those who harbor runaways? She hoped that he would at least try it directly instead of resorting to something as cowardly as poison. In spite of her nerves, she swallowed back the wine. Once it was warming the pit of her stomach, she glanced along the high table to see who else had earned positions there. There were, to Danarius’s left, several illustrious-looking mages whom she did not know. On her side of the table, however, were at least three faces she knew. Sebastian, regally dressed in an emerald-green doublet, was hesitantly sipping at his wine with an expression that made it clear just how unaccustomed to drink he had become in the years since he had found the Maker. Varric, on the other hand, seemed quite at ease as he drank deeply and surveyed the crowd, clearly writing a narrative of the affair within his own mind. He must have felt Hawke’s eyes because he glanced over at her and winked. She smiled at him before finding Merrill, who, to Hawke’s surprise, had been beside her the entire time.

“Merrill!” she gasped, looking the mage up and down. “I would never have recognized you!”

“Well, yes, I thought so,” chuckled Merrill, looking especially bashful. “They sent some girls to the room and they pinned all this fluff into my hair.” The fluff that she was referring to was apparently a great deal of human hair which made it appear that Merrill had dark waves of hair which fell well past her waist. There were segments of the hair which has been braided along with some metallic threads that caught the light wonderfully. Merrill’s face had been decorated with the same shimmering powder that the servants had smattered across Hawkes’ face and it looked very well on her. Surrounded by glittering, pearly dust, Merrill’s eyes looked ever larger than usual and her vallasin seemed even darker and exaggerated. They had dressed her in green silk which suited her perfectly. Hawke wondered if the slaves had resented dressing a fellow elf in such splendor.

“You look amazing,” Hawke assured her, touching Merrill’s forearm with gentle fingers.

“No one would be this kind to me if you weren’t my… lover,” Merrill muttered, smiling shyly.

“Well, I’m glad that they’re treating you well.” Hawke decided then that it was very important to drink more and so immediately set about the business of consuming as much alcohol as possible. She continued to drain her goblet with enthusiasm through the myriad of courses that appeared and disappeared on her plate. In the end, she found that the wine was the only thing her nervous stomach could handle. She hoped that no one noticed or that, if they did, they attributed her excessive drinking to some form of alcoholism.

When dessert was swept away, Danarius announced that the dancing would begin. He held out his hand to Hawke and she understood that she was to share the first dance with him. She hoped that she wouldn’t trip over her own hem. Fortunately, she was at least sober enough to make her way down to the dance floor without stumbling. As she descended the stairs from the high table, she was grateful to have Danarius’ arm to lean upon.

The music had not yet begun when they reached the center of the floor and were meant to take position. They would dance alone, at least at first, and Hawke felt embarrassingly conscious of all the eyes that were upon her. She knew only a few dances and hadn’t the foggiest notion how people were meant to dance in Tevinter. As Danarius took her into his arms, she whispered, with vulnerability that was entirely genuine, “I don’t know how to dance.”

He chuckled, his breath against her neck; he smelled of wine and rotting fruit. “It’s as simple as swaying—let them see how you move, how the fabric falls over your skin, let them imagine what sheer bliss it would be to touch your swaying hips.” The low murmur of his speech vibrated in his chest; she felt its vibrations pass through her and blushed.

“It can’t be as simple as that.”

“We’re very straightforward in the Imperium,” he assured her. “There’s no preamble, no veil to hide behind. This is dance—we know where it leads.”

As the music began his hands found her hips and she felt her blush intensify. She felt the music within her. She felt the rumble of the percussion and felt herself overcome by the lazy, spiraling trill of the violin. From somewhere far away she became aware of the light chords emanating from a lute. The instruments expertly combined in an exotic melody she had never heard and Hawke felt herself almost falling into a trance as the music swept over her and Danarius pulled her body flush with his own.

She closed her eyes, refusing to allow herself to tense beneath his grasp. She willed herself to forget who it was that held her. She imagined instead the only other man who had held her with such intimacy. She imagined his smell like elfroot and the warmth of his hands which never touched her with anything but gentleness. Once they had danced together, lazily and without prescribed movements. Years ago, when things were just beginning and she had been impossibly drunk and he had been there, watching to make sure she did nothing foolish. Ages ago. Before the first kiss, before impassioned confessions. They had been in the Hanged Man, sitting at the same table, long after the others had gone home. What had they been laughing about? It was not long after Carver died. She had needed to drink and insisted that she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. But he had stayed. To take care of her if she needed him. But they had laughed somehow about something or other. And she had started singing an old elegy and Anders, bless him, had sung along. It was a slow, plaintive song mourning lost love. They sang poorly, neither of them skilled singers. But still, they swayed to the music of their own making and, in little time, Anders had stood and held out his hand to her. She had taken it, stood, and tumbled against his body. Steady, he had held her. Barely whispering those old lyrics, they had swayed together. She remembered how deliberately she had moved then and the gradual hardening of his body as she pressed against him.

She brought forth that memory now and imagined Anders’ arms around her. It was so easy then to move to the beat of the song. So easy to be swept away and dance smoothly even as she pressed against the body of that insidious Magister who gripped her so tightly. She scarcely noticed as other couples came forth, dancing in much the same way as she was then. She noticed nothing until the song came to a close and a hand tapped lightly on her shoulder. Whipping around, she found Sebastian standing directly before her. He was smiling in his customary gentle manner but there was something in the blush of his cheeks that told her that he’d had a bit to drink. “May I have this dance?” he asked, glancing from her to Danarius.

Danarius sighed with exaggerated disappointment. “I would hate to lose such a talented partner, but who could deny a Prince the partner of his choice?” He bid them farewell for the moment and left Hawke alone with Sebastian.

As she stepped into his arms, she said teasingly, “I wouldn’t have thought that this style of dance was much in your element, Sebastian.”

He chuckled. “On the contrary, Hawke, this is not so very different from the manner of dance used in some of Starkhaven’s less reputable institutions. I am not unfamiliar with such things, alas.” As proof of his words, Hawke felt his hips pressed against her and moving in perfect time with both the song and her body. As his palm pressed flat against the small of her back, Hawke found herself, to her great shame, blushing.

“You’re quite good at this,” she laughed. Dancing in this manner was unsettling to say the least.

“You’re not bad yourself, Hawke,” he said gently, bowing his head to whisper in her ear. Her head nestled against his chest and her breasts, bare save for the thin silk of her dress, pressed against the warmth of his torso. His body was well-made and, free from his armor, she could feel the muscles hidden just beneath his clothes. Somehow this was more awkward than dancing with Danarius. To be held by a man she knew so well was a different sensation altogether and she found herself hoping against hope that he was not as aware of her body as she was of his. She distracted herself with chattering on, asking questions about what his life had been like in Starkhaven. As he spoke, his voice low and gusting past her naked throat, she turned her head to glance about the room. It was shocking to see the wanton writhing that now pervaded the room as the spell the music cast seemed to take over the guests. To Hawke’s great surprise and amusement, she caught sight of Varric leading Merrill around the room in a sweet simple dance that was entirely out of place and yet suited the pair perfectly. Hawke smiled and pointed them out to Sebastian, who seemed oddly put out that Hawke’s attention had been divided. He also seemed a bit annoyed when, the moment the song ended, another man came to whisk Hawke away. He found himself another partner swiftly, but it wasn’t long before he gave up on the enterprise of dancing and retired to the back of the room to watch the others.

Gradually, as time wore on and songs passed and blurred together, more people seemed to weary of dancing. In pairs or in groups they drifted to the corners of the room and began to cling to one another in what was little more than a clothed orgy. Danarius was not unaware of the shift in the room’s energy and seemed delighted by the turn of events. After whispering conspiratorially with one of his slaves, Danarius hopped atop a small platform which was towards the rear of the room. To gain the attention of the distracted and inebriated guests, he shot off a flurry of bursting sparks from his hands. “Alright, my darlings!” he shouted, grinning wildly. “Before we close the evening, why don’t we have a little bit of entertainment!” The final word was met with thunderous applause and cheering. Hawke tentatively joined in the clapping. During the dancing she had sobered somewhat and now found herself somewhat nervous. Anything that made Danarius so gleeful was clearly not something she would enjoy. He gestured towards the double doors before him and when they were thrown open, Hawke stared, hating herself for not knowing that this was coming all along.

There were titters around the room as people looked from Fenris to her. She joined their laughter and smiled broadly. Her reaction, boring as it was, lost their attention and all eyes were once again on Danarius and Fenris, who was being led to the Magister’s side. This was the first time in ages that Hawke had seen Fenris close-up and her eyes eagerly soaked him in. Mercifully, he was not on his hands and knees now. He was led by a golden chain that was attached to the collar around his neck, but he had been allowed to stand. She was grateful for that at least. He’d changed, she could see. To her recollection she had never seen his face so free of anger and resentment. He looked at peace, almost like one of the Tranquil. She had never seen his body before and, though he was indeed thinner, she was glad to see that he looked otherwise healthy. They had not starved him or tortured him to the point of scarring. He was not beyond saving. He was alive and well and soon she would reclaim him from this place. A wave of relief washed over her.

That relief was soon gone when she had the presence of mind to wonder why Fenris had been brought into her presence. She was not left to wonder long. Danarius and Fenris were alone atop the platform with the eyes of the room fixed upon them. Hawke stared, unable to look away as Danarius’ withered hand slowly caressed the smooth, taut muscles of Fenris’ abdomen. Her breath caught in her throat as the Magister embraced the elf, standing behind him and keeping his eyes on the crowd. Fenris looked blankly forwards and did not shy from Danarius’ touch. One of the mage’s hands began to lazily toy with one of Fenris’ nipples while the other insidious hand removed what little cloth there had been between Fenris and utter nakedness. A bolt of panic shot through Hawke as she saw Danarius slowly begin to play with Fenris’ body, bringing those lyrium markings to life beneath his touch. Panicking like an animal caught in a trap, Hawke forgot her composure and looked frantically for her companions. They stood together a few feet back from her, staring transfixed at the scene before them with their mouths gaping. It was too much. Fenris wouldn’t want them to see him like this. Hawke rushed to them, catching their attention with a quick, sharp shove to Sebastian’s chest. “Get out,” she hissed, her voice low and lethal.

Without arguing or interrogating, they turned and swiftly fled the room. Hawke stood alone then in the center of that crowded room and, before turning back to the show, carefully put her shattered mask back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not a whole lot to say for this one. I will say, however, that I wanted to come up with an explanation for the mysterious red bands that appear on Fenris or Isabela if you romance them. Given that Minrathous and Rivain aren't altogether that far apart, I decided they might have similar traditions and customs.


	7. Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entertainment arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Non-con/Rape or Extremely Dubious Consent… your mileage may vary on that point. The moral of this warning is that, if you are put off by kinky sex, it’s probably best to skip this chapter. This chapter is basically all smut with only a vague, gauzy veil of plot cast over it. I’m a bad, bad human.

Autumn seemed to have come early to Minrathous. It seemed as if he had missed a season. The budding of the dogwood trees had passed him by entirely and it seemed odd that he would have missed their flowering. Passing through the gardens, the stones cold beneath him and only the faintest, lingering smell of blossoms in the air, Fenris often lamented that he had somehow failed to make note of the changing seasons. Soon it would be winter and he would be confined to the indoors. He didn’t mind being inside but he would miss the walks that he and Master took about the property. He’d miss those little attentions that marked him as chosen among the myriad of slaves. Lately that attention had been faltering and it was beginning to worry him. He did not relish the intimacy of the dark, hollow nights spent in Danarius’s bedchamber. He did not like the cold hands that ran over his exposed skin nor the hushed whispers of his name. In the past, he had prayed to an absent god that these nights would stop. Now that they had, however, he worried. There was no explanation given and no punishment administered. He was merely ignored at the end of the day and allowed to return to the crowded slave quarters. It was odd to be just another among their numbers and the others watched him with inquisitive eyes. As the days of being ignored wore on, his anxiety increased. If he was no longer precious to his master, then what would become of him? What was his purpose? He had never been just a bodyguard before. He knew that he was not just a bodyguard now—he was a broken toy. And he knew what happened to playthings that no longer excited Master. He’d disposed of enough of them with his own hands.

For weeks, his desire to please had been mounting. He did not want to be cast off. For that reason, he was elated when Flavius had come to him that morning and told him that he would be needed for that evening’s entertainment. “There’s to be a party,” the apprentice said flatly, examining his cuticles instead of looking Fenris in the face. “You’re to be served for dessert,” he added with a smile. “A special surprise for the guest of honor, though I doubt she’ll choose to taste you. She has her own little knife-ear to feast on at leisure and I can’t imagine why she’d touch a deformed little savage like yourself. Of course Danarius, Maker help him, has developed a fondness for you for some odd reason; perhaps she will not be immune to your so-called charms.” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Fenris and so Fenris said nothing in response. Flavius sighed absently, as if it were demeaning to him to be so much as talking in Fenris’s direction. “It hardly matters though; I’m sure the others will touch you. So don’t eat—we’ll want you clean. Put on a good show, won’t you?” He smiled to himself. “But then, you always do don’t you? There’s a good elf. I’m off. See you tonight.” He turned and was gone without a further word wasted.

It was an odd thing to feel an onslaught of dread coupled with relief. He did not like to be touched; he had never liked these performances. The hands of the mages, pressed to his skin, made the lyrium sing uncomfortably and set all his nerves ablaze at once. And when they pressed themselves inside of him, with no care for his comfort, it felt remarkably like dying. Still, better to be alive and in pain than to be deemed useless and thrown off onto the scrap heap. He’d put on a good show. He wasn’t going to let himself be forgotten.

The moment that Danarius’s hands were upon him, the surge of relief, as well as the sensation of being touched, lit the fire of the lyrium which wove across the surface of his skin like lazily scrawled vallasin. It was not a wretched feeling—not when it was brought to life by a gentle hand. At a time like this, the tenderness of his Master’s hand as it brushed across his navel seemed odd and out of place. Still, in spite of what motives Danarius might have for calling him here, Fenris was determined to leave the Magister craving him as if he were made entirely of the purest lyrium.

Danarius’s hand crept lower, lightly running across the smooth length of Fenris’s cock. As Danarius’s thumb began to rub urgently against the tip, Fenris closed his eyes and allowed himself to show more pleasure than he felt. Mouth open, a needy gasp escaped his throat as his master’s skillful hands brought about a desperate erection. That hardness was indeed genuine; it had been several days at least since he had been touched and Fenris had never been one to resort to fondling himself to bring about pleasure. Along with the anxiety that came with being neglected had come a gnawing, desperate need which begged to be discharged.

Of course he knew that he would not be allowed to cum. They fed on his desire; they relished his urgent pleas and his gasps for mercy. Already feeling himself aching with excitement, he felt Danarius laugh, pulling him closer. “Not yet, my eager wolf.” Danarius clucked his tongue with amused disapproval. “I haven’t been taking proper care of you, have I?” Fenris inhaled sharply as his master’s hand gripped him with painful force. Always pleasure followed by pain. Pain that only served to further excite his hunger. Hunger that made the soft, wet kiss against his exposed neck almost welcome. Danarius’s lips were kept soft with balms and exfoliating creams, but his tongue was rough as a cat’s when he lapped at the veins of lyrium the swirled like vines along the side of Fenris’s neck. The gentleness of that kiss faded rapidly, becoming little more than a procedure to mark Fenris with burst blood pooling in his skin. As if he had not been scarred enough by Danarius’s ministrations.

“Aren’t you glad to have been invited to such a grand party?” Danarius asked, loudly enough for the guests to hear. Fenris heard their laughter.

“Yes,” he moaned, rolling his head back and further exposing his throat.

“You want to be touched, don’t you?” Danarius’s hand was moving with unbearable speed, begging Fenris to climax even though he’d been forbidden to do so.

“Yes.” He was focusing now on anything other than the urges he felt.

“You like being my plaything, don’t you, Fenris?”

Odd to be asked so many questions. “Yes, Master,” he cried roughly, begging Danarius to proceed and move past this painful, aching preamble.

Danarius laughed merrily and announced to the others, “He does so enjoy these games that I feel just awful keeping him to myself. Who’d like to play first?” It was a question directed to the room as a whole and Fenris steeled himself for what was to come. Danarius, at least, did not want to break his own possessions. The others were never so careful with another’s belongings. The first time he’d been presented at a party such as this—five years ago was it?—he’d bled so profusely that he’d fainted. They had continued on after that, he was told, and taken him to a healer only once everyone had had their turn. That had been among the worst times; being unaware of what had been done to his body had reminded him that not even his own flesh belonged to him. Nothing had hurt so badly after that. His body was not his own and therefore anything they did to that shell could not reach to the core of his being. He comforted himself with that pretty thought, though the body still stung and ached with shame as he allowed things to happen to it. Though he had the strength to fight them, he never did. Perhaps that was what was worst of all.

To no one’s surprise, it was Magister Tricanus who stepped forward to take the first turn with Fenris. He had been standing just a few strides from the platform, already engaged in some fairly heated groping with his apprentice, Claudius. Tricanus was well known throughout Tevinter for his sexual appetites and the overwhelming, insatiable nature of his desire. There was no way of fulfilling his voracious appetites, though that did not stop him from sampling the bodies of every elven slave he could use without consequence. As Tricanus began to climb the short staircase to reach Fenris and his Master, Danarius drew something his pocket with which Fenris was all too familiar. He might have groaned with dread, but he had made it his credo to be agreeable for the evening and so he made no complaint, aside from whining involuntarily, as Danarius fitted him with a triple cock ring. As he did so, Danarius glanced up at Fenris, smiling wickedly while Fenris panted desperately. “There’s a good lad,” cooed Danarius. “We wouldn’t want the fun to be over too soon, now would we?” Fenris shook his head, trying to smile but failing. He had never understood why he had to remain erect for this; they used his penis so little that he might as well have been a eunuch.  

Naked and waiting, Fenris stood and watched as Tricanus took those last few steps towards him. Danarius, face decorated with that wolf-grin, walked away and took his position on the floor of the ballroom with the rest of the audience. Fenris watched him go; so often it was Danarius who took the first turn at such events. It seemed an ill omen that he should not choose to do so on this occasion. But Fenris considered what such a thing might mean for only the most fleeting of moments; he could not allow himself the luxury of thought just then. He had learned a skill throughout the years of entering a state almost like a lucid dream—he removed himself from that flesh that was not his own and seemed to float above, distant and untainted by the hands that touched his shell. He was, at once, aware and unaware.

Tricanus had the decency to remove his robes in their entirety. It was the practice of most of the participants to keep their robes on, thus making Fenris’s nakedness a stark symbol of his subservience. Perhaps it was Tricanus’s notorious exhibitionism that prompted him to shed the orange robes he had donned for the evening. Smiling impishly, he peeled the cloth slowly from his body and let the fabric fall down in a shimmering puddle at his feet. Like many in the crowd, he wore nothing beneath his garments and was left entirely bare once the robes had fallen from his body. Some in the crowd applauded the boldness of the move though Fenris’s eyes saw nothing worth applauding. Tricanus was, to Fenris’s knowledge, roughly the same age as Danarius and the years had not treated him at all kindly. Still, it appeared that he was not shy about the round paunch of his belly which was supported by legs too small for his corpulent torso. His arms were soft and sagged as if they had somehow been drained, leaving flesh drooping from the bone limply. Almost his whole body seemed to sag with age and lack of exertion. Only his stomach and his cock seemed full and proud, both protruding from his body dramatically.

There was nothing to be gained from grimacing or shying away from the magister lord’s touch; once Fenris had tried such things and that had only brought laughter and greater violence. Still, he could not bring himself to smile, though he knew that there were those who could feign desire in such a manner. Green eyes dead and empty, Fenris allowed Tricanus to weave swollen fingers through his white hair. His body still and rigid, Fenris allowed himself to be pulled against the soft expanse of Tricanus’s form. Lips slatted over lips and a kiss began. Fenris opened his mouth, allowing a foul-tasting tongue to plunge between his lips. He moaned a bit to match Tricanus’s enthusiastic sounds; it seemed to be the thing to do given the situation. This kiss was a mere preamble, he knew, and soon enough it had ended. The mage’s face was ruddier than before, perhaps flushed from the wine that mingled with his increasing desire. A desire that was not directed at the elf that he held in his arms, but to the young, lithe body that would accept him even if the elf did not.

“Taste me,” he ordered, forcing Fenris down to his knees. The platform was cushioned somewhat and kneeling was not so painful as it might have been. That was a small mercy.

Tricanus’s thighs, round and covered in a dusting of dark hair, ensured that no air had reached his genitals throughout the evening. Sweat had blossomed in that dark recess of his anatomy and had become pungent. Without hesitation and with trained hands, Fenris reached out and began to roll Tricanus’s testicles gently in one hand while the other began to stroke along the Magister’s shaft. The head of the mage’s cock was pointed at his face now; it was red with lust and already a bead of precum glistened in the slit. When Fenris took the head into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, he tasted the accumulated sweat of the day even as the smell of it assaulted his nostrils.

Tricanus smiled to the crowd as the fair head bobbed between his legs, working fervently to bring the mage to climax as swiftly as possible. If the mage were spent quickly, then this ghastly display would not continue further. It was inevitable, Fenris knew, that someone would enter him over the course of the evening, but he hoped at least that he would not need to feel the heavy weight of Tricanus’s belly resting upon his lower back while they rutted roughly in front of the others.

The magister tasted sour as he oozed across Fenris’s tongue. He must have felt himself nearing an end because he roughly jerked the elf away from his cock, causing Fenris to gasp as he sharply took in air. He had been immersed in his task, sucking attentively and never allowing any portion of the shaft to go unmassaged by his hands. He knew that the Magister would be aware of the lyrium that danced across his skin; it was for this reason that those blazing tendrils had been seared below his lips and branded along his throat. Danarius had told him that the humming song of the lyrium could be felt within Fenris’s mouth. His hands too, though they had been made as weapons, also awoke a tingling that was not unpleasant in those Fenris caressed. He felt it alive in his skin, crying out for him to return to his body and to experience every moment of contact.

Tricanus threw Fenris onto his back and, in an instant, was forcing the elf’s knees up towards his ears. The suddenness of the gesture evoked another short gasp from Fenris. He looked up, meeting the mage’s eyes. There was nothing more for him to do now; he had only to lie back and wait for the invasion. Against his thighs, Fenris felt the Magister’s hands grow slick with the grease that they all seemed to know how to summon. It was hardly surprising to Fenris that magister’s had found ways to use their immense power to enhance their sex-lives. In fact, Fenris was willing to wager that that was one of the first things mages had done with their magic.

A hand left one of his thighs but Fenris kept it raised obligingly as Tricanus’s fingers slid over to his ass. It had been a while and Fenris knew that, in spite of the minimal preparation Tricanus would give him, it would hurt. It always hurt, though this time would be worse than when he was in practice. Teasingly, the mage ran his middle finger around Fenris’s entrance. Already, the muscles throughout Fenris’s body were tense with bitter anticipation. He could feel himself trembling, almost as if with fear. He fought it, trying to relax himself, as he could already see the maniacal glee coming into the eyes of the man who loomed above him. A single finger plunged inside of him. It wasn’t so bad—not really—as it began to squirm like a worm burrowing into an apple.

“Do you like it when I touch your asshole?” whispered Tricanus, leaning forward across Fenris’s body as he spoke. A second finger found it’s way into Fenris’ ass and the friction increased inside of him in spite of that grease.

“Yes,” moaned Fenris, arching his back towards the Magister. “Yes, I love it when you touch my asshole.” He heard himself mumble the words as if they were not his own.

Tricanus laughed. They always laughed. They always baited him, making him confess to thoughts that were not his own and then laughing at his confessions. Typical.

“I’m going to fuck you ‘til you can’t walk.” Hot breath rushed across Fenris’ face, smelling of rotting meat. Tricanus turned his head to the side but the fingers of the hand that was not currently forcing itself inside him then came to his face, making him look forward. That tongue inside his mouth again and tasted of food and filth. The fingers left his ass during the kiss but there was no pleasure in their removal; it was only a sign that a fresh assault was soon to come.

Tricanus entered Fenris in one blunt thrust that caused the mage to close his eyes, groaning with the pleasure of being surrounded so suddenly by such tightness. He swore gruffly beneath his breath, lips twitching at the corners with delight. Fenris let out a faint whine that he was unable to contain and then immediately bit his lower lip in order to stifle any further outbursts. He felt as if he were going to burst. He could feel himself being forced apart; the joints of his hips already ached uncomfortably and his ass seemed to be burning as the mage roughly thrust in and out of his body. They were quick, desperate thrusts that seemed more designed for his own pleasure than for Fenris’s. The sound of their skin slapping together pounded in on Fenris’s ears with each thrust and the embarrassing squelching sound of his asshole brought a flush to his cheeks. Thankfully, Fenris could see that Tricanus’s end was already nearing. The mage’s face was clenching and had grown more hideous as he lost the will to monitor his expressions; he moved with the frantic enthusiasm of a wild beast in the throes of heat. Fenris urged him onward, grinding his hips against the mage and even going so far as to moan loudly, grunting as if he were no longer able to restrain his enjoyment. These desperate actions had the desired effect and, after no more than a moment, the entirety of Tricanus’s rotund body was shuddering with the euphoria of his ecstatic release.

The show had roused the interest of the audience. As soon as Fenris was freed from Tricanus, he was joined on the platform by a middle-aged man who had a young, giggling woman in tow. At her partner’s instruction, the girl leapt forward, clumsily stroking Fenris’s bound cock. As she did so, she could scarcely contain her shrill, drunken laughter as she played with him. “Now, let him taste you,” the man told her gruffly as he languidly rubbed his own crotch.

The girl lay back, splaying her legs apart and hitching up her skirts around her hips. Her head faced towards the crowd deliberately so that her nakedness would be shielded from them even as they would be able to see the ripples of pleasure passing over her face. Fenris, his body already aching, pulled himself to his knees and dragged himself, catlike, towards the girl. He knew what she wanted from him—she wanted him to eye her lustily and say that she was beautiful. She wanted his tongue to flick across her cunt, tasting her flavor, and then she wanted him to tell her that she was delicious. She wanted him to lie to her. And so he did, going through the motions. Bringing a blush to her cheeks. Making her smile and, wonder of wonders, stop her incessant giggling. Mercifully, she actually had a rather pleasant flavor; that much of what he said had not been a complete lie. She had come tonight, he guessed, with the desire to ingratiate herself to the mage who had brought her. She’d made efforts to keep herself groomed.

He bent his head, keeping his eyes turned up towards her and meeting her softened gaze. She was sensitive and responded well to the gentle, focused touch of his tongue against her clit. Fenris was certain that he could have finished her more quickly if he were to reach up and feel the inside of her wet, eager passage with his fingers. Still, he knew better than to do so. It was against the tacit code to penetrate a man’s woman without being told to do so. Mages could be so particular about such things. Their women belonged to them as well, not just their slaves. Even without manual attention, however, the girl was soon gasping, her body undulating under his attentions. She was grasping at her own breasts, her head rolling from side to side as she begged him to do things to her that he had no right to do. Fenris felt his own cock throbbing, longing to, this once, take the initiative. But no. He reached down and began to stroke his length as he brought her to a close. Fenris continued to touch his own cock as the other man helped the girl from the floor. Her knees were weak and she almost fell off the platform, which sent her off giggling wildly once more.

The man who had accompanied the girl was not content to let her alone take pleasure. “Watch now,” he told her as he knelt down behind Fenris and grasped him by the hips.

The penetration was less startling this time; this path had already been blazed by another. Fenris braced himself with both hands on the floor as, with tremendous force, the man moved against him. This man had greater finesse than Tricanus and, whether it was because of that or because the pain of first intrusion had been replaced by a dull numbness, Fenris found that his light groans of pleasure were not entirely feigned. His soul was sickened as his body reacted powerfully to the touch of another, but this man seemed to take some sort of vile thrill in making sure Fenris felt some enjoyment. Arching himself over Fenris’s back, he reached around and took the elf’s cock into his hand, slowly running up and down the length and, with each stroke, running across the head. His lips close to Fenris’ ear, he whispered, “You’re such a good hole.” Fenris moaned in response, his eyes falling shut even as he bit back his voice. “No,” whispered the man, increasing the speed of both his thrusts and his groping hand. “Let me hear you.” A command. Far be it from Fenris to ignore such a thing. He allowed himself to cry out, pleading for things he didn’t want and for things he didn’t want to want. As the man came nearer to climax, Fenris felt his own cock straining against the rings that bound him. He felt his testicles unable to withdraw and his orgasm was not forthcoming. He heard himself whimper and beg to be allowed to cum. He knew, of course, that he would not be obliged. Still, he pleaded.

The warm burst of the man’s seed joined with the semen that already sat within Fenris. The man shouted something roughly that Fenris could not hear over the thudding of blood within his own ears. When the man released his hips, Fenris toppled forward, gasping, onto the floor. His muscles were beyond his control now and his body seemed aware only of his cock as it yearned to help him find the climax that he so sorely needed. Tears were blooming at the corners of his eyes and, desperately, he pawed at himself like a weak, needy adolescent. He scarcely noticed when a new participant emerged behind him. Once more, he was pulled up onto his hands and knees by another man.

Vision blurring, Fenris glanced up across the crowd. Many stood, waiting, already fumbling with their robes. There were some who were paired off with a partner and some who were alone. There were men mostly; the only women seemed to be paired off with men. Most were nearing or past middle age. Most of their faces were familiar. Aside from those who were clearly awaiting their turn, there were a number of guests who watched lazily from the sidelines, drinking their wine. Thankfully, the entertainment had not began until quite late. Some guests had already left by the time Fenris was brought out. Many of those who remained had had too much to drink to be of use to anyone, let alone a deformed elven slave. Still, even those drunken guests watched.

There were those, however, who did not have their eyes turned towards the platform. Those clusters of guests who were engaged in conversation or who were in the process of heated fondling with partners of their own. Their inattention hurt more than anything. The fact that, while he was skewered for their entertainment, they thought him beneath their notice. Fenris couldn’t stand to look at their complacent faces any longer, he turned his eyes towards the floor. He was unable to achieve climax in the arms of the man who held him then, but the next, clumsy though he was, was able to bring Fenris to an orgasm that left him shaking. Enough time had passed and the need had grown to a point of breaking.

As his own cum lingered on his abdomen, Fenris longed to wipe it away. Still, he knew that such a thing would be useless; he was covered in the stuff. Semen had leaked out of his ass and had spilled across his thighs in rivers. Newcomers seemed undeterred by this and only added to the mess that now was splattered across his back, his abdomen, and his ass. A few enthusiastic lads had shot their seed across Fenris’ face after he had so expertly tasted their cocks. They had made him beg for it. They had made him thank them. He was coated in glossy filth now that no amount of washing could remove.

Most had had their turn by the time that he lay, panting and entirely exhausted, with a renewed erection straining painfully. Those who had had their turns or who had found their partners already had filtered from the room. There were only a very few people—less than a hundred—left in the room, though Fenris was largely unaware of any of his surroundings. He was numb now, his eyes fogged and his body pulsing with a dull sensation that felt like death. A dull hum of conversation was still in the air and he knew that the end of the night was nearing. Soon he would be dragged to the baths and cleaned, perhaps healed if such a thing were warranted. He suspected that he would need healing; not long ago he had noticed blood pooling beneath him. The semen now ran pink down his thighs. He was too tired for this to worry him overmuch. He knew the end was near, but this was not the end. There was always the finale—that man who would not enjoy himself until the crowd had thinned. That man who liked to make him scream.

And then that man appeared in Fenris’ field of vision, seeming to drift before Fenris’ blurry eyes. He felt himself shaking, perhaps from the chill as the fluids cooling on his skin. Perhaps from the glimmer of Flavius’ eyes as he stood, looking down. Fenris looked towards Flavius' hands and was unsurprised and undaunted to find the usual implements there. Yes, of course. Of course the night would end like this. Fenris summoned his remaining strength and smiled as if her were contented. He would not look away from that apprentice’s eye nor would he shy away. He hadn’t much pride, but he was too proud to allow Flavius to see his weary dread. Grunting slightly, Fenris pulled himself up to his hands and knees, tilting up his face and looking docilely at the mage who stood before him.

“You look tired, Fenris,” cooed Flavius with mocking concern. “Perhaps you’ve had too much for one evening…?” He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully, his lips twisted into a smile.

“More,” said Fenris, his voice shaking and strained.

Flavius’ smiled broadened. “More, is it?” He ran his index finger and thumb across one of the long, thin needles that he held in his hand. “Then more you shall have, little wolf.”

Fenris pulled himself to the point of kneeling, his arms hanging limply at his sides as he straightened himself to the best of ability. Fixing Flavius with his gaze, showing no fear—now that was a real pleasure. The kind of enjoyment he could feel to the very core of his being rather than the superficial, reactionary pleasure that his body forced him to feel. Flavius sensed the obstinacy that lurked beneath Fenris’ submissive exterior; since his rise to apprenticeship—when had he replaced Hadriana?—Flavius had seemed to doubt the sincerity of Fenris’ subservience. He tested it at every turn, daring Fenris to defy him. What a lovely game they played.           

The apprentice never used the same move twice; he was always changing the rules and switching his plays, convinced that he could finally break Fenris. The elf’s only act—the one tool that he had at his disposal—was his resolute refusal to break his composure in the face of the mage’s pressure. He knelt, waiting, before Flavius. The mage, tall and even beautiful, disgusted Fenris more than even Tricanus. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered. Fenris obliged and Flavius circled around behind Fenris and knelt. Fenris’ back was forced to arch as Flavius used silk ropes to fasten Fenris’s wrists to his ankles, severely hindering his ability to move. Fenris had to wince; his back already ached and this only exacerbated that problem. To make matters worse, he had to strain to hold himself upright. He grabbed his ankles, steadying himself.

Flavius rose from the ground, his crimson robes rustling as he did so. He circled around in front of Fenris before leaning forward, running his hand with cruel gentleness from the elf’s throat all the way down to his navel. The light touch, so tender, caused the lyrium’s glow to renew. Fenris’ head lolled back, his eyes fluttering closed. “Such a good boy,” muttered Flavius. “A beautiful, trained wolf. You’d never snap at your master’s hand would you?” His hand grasped Fenris’ erection, which had been painfully prolonged and now was purpling around the head. Flavius’ tight grasp elicited a sharp cry from Fenris that made the mage chuckle warmly. “So sensitive, Fenris,” he murmured, clucking his tongue. He sharply tugged at Fenris’ cock and, whether it was from pain or pleasure or from both, Fenris shouted, begging for Flavius to keep touching him. That seemed to be all the prompting Flavius needed to take away his hand. Fenris let out a needy whine of complaint. He was throbbing so painfully now that he might have done anything to cum.

“Let’s see if we can distract you from that pain?” suggested Flavius. Fenris opened his eyes and looked forward dazedly. He saw that Flavius was now toying with those fine needles once more. He was smiling in such a manner that Fenris closed his eyes, unable to meet that gaze. “No,” commanded Flavius in his flat, authoritative voice. “Look at me. Look at me while I do it to you.” Fenris did so.

Setting several thin needles aside, clustered on a black, satin cloth, Flavius lifted one and began, with its precise tip, to trace lazy lines along the lyrium markings that branched along Fenris’ pectorals. It felt as if every nerve in his body was now focused solely on the exact spot where that needle made contact with his skin. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as he waited to see, and feel, where that sharp point would plunge into his skin. He knew pain—he could handle pain—but the anticipation was torture. There was no pain in the world that could surpass the pain of waiting.

“You make me do this to you,” Flavius said, his voice low and husky now. “You make me want to hurt you—your lewd body, your insolent expressions, the sound of your voice when you beg me to fuck you harder. You know that you ask for it, don’t you?” It seemed rhetorical. It seemed like a knowing remark. Fenris didn’t answer. After a moment of silence, Flavius plunged the needle through Fenris’ nipple and shouted, “Answer me!”

“Yes!” cried Fenris, the pain radiating out from the site where the needle was now lodged. “Yes, I ask for it!”

“I know you do.” Flavius flicked the needle sharply; Fenris bit back a scream, drawing blood from his own tongue as he did so.

Flavius laughed roughly and lunged forward, taking the un-pierced nipple into his mouth and rolling it gently with his tongue. His hands wrapped around Fenris, holding the small of his back and keeping him upright even as he seemed on the brink of toppling over. Flavius moaned against Fenris’ chest and Fenris felt the vibration of the sound tremble against his hardened nipple. The pain awakened where the needle had punctured him now sang, irresistibly calling him back to his body. He felt it all now. He felt the pain and he felt the warmth and softness of Flavius’ lips locked over his nipple, drawing it in and making him all the more sensitive to touch. Fenris’ muscles tensed, anticipating the pain that always came on the heels of pleasure.

In the instant that Flavius took his mouth away, a needle pierced through Fenris’ nipple. “There,” sighed Flavius contentedly. “Symmetry. Such a lovely thing.” Fenris whimpered. “Don’t you think so?”

Fenris nodded and gasped, “Yes.”

Flavius patted his cheek. “Good boy. Now, there’s something I’ve always wanted to try but I’ve never found a willing participant. You want to participate, don’t you?”

“Yes,” panted Fenris breathlessly.

“Good,” grinned Flavius, reaching out and stroking Fenris’ cock. Fenris mewled loudly, pressing himself into Flavius’ encircling hand with rapid, needy thrusts. “It’s good that you’re so hard,” chuckled the mage. “That will make things so much easier. Hold still.”

Fenris halted his motion and looked down to where the tip of the needle sat poised at the head of his cock. He froze, every muscle in his body now as rigid as his cock. Flavius laughed. “Good! So obedient. Now make sure you stay very, very still. We don’t want to hurt your master’s property, now do we?” Fenris, shook his head from side to side, his eyes now fixed on the bright glint of the needle. Flavius watched the fear flicker across Fenris’ eyes. It was wonderful. Intoxicating.

He made it quick, sliding the needle through the head with complete disregard for the sensitivity of the frenulum. Head thrown back, teeth gritted, Fenris let out a scream that seemed to tear at his throat. It was not a loud sound—not really—but it was the sound so animalistic and rough that it seemed to linger in the air. The cry transformed into a curse which was met with a harsh slap across his face. Fenris fell to his side. “Watch your language,” chided Flavius. “There are ladies present.”

Flavius was standing, exchanging words with Danarius, but Fenris heard nothing of their exchange. The next thing he was aware of was the sudden freedom from the rings that had imprisoned his genitals throughout the night’s entertainment. He could have wept from relief as his hand automatically went to his shaft, stroking. After only one or two swift movements of his hands, he found the release he had been craving. His voice was raw as he called out and his entire body seemed to split at the seams. He went limp, his mind in a fog.

The ties around his wrists and ankles were being removed. He did not try to control his limbs even when they were free but lay with his eyes shut as he waited for whatever was to come next. He didn’t dare hope that it was over now. It was never over.

“Such a good sport,” Flavius murmured sweetly, his soft, gentle hands running through Fenris’ hair. He toyed lightly with the hair at the nape of elf’s neck. Fenris sighed.

Slowly, the mage extracted one needle and then another and then another. Underneath his hands, Fenris was trembling like a child. He was wet with sweat and semen and glittering around his eyes with the faintest trace of tears. With slow hands, Flavius ran his fingers across the visible vertebrae of Fenris’ spine. His trailing fingers made trails in the cum that had accumulated on the elf’s back. As he moved lower, Flavius could see the spray of blood that had landed in droplets on Fenris’ skin as men pushed themselves inside of him. He could see that the slave was weak now—whether it was from overuse or from blood loss was anyone’s guess. Flavius bent and, with soft lips, pressed a kiss to Fenris’ lower back. Fenris shuddered. Flavius held back a laugh. When he rose, he grabbed Fenris by the hips and lifted him so that he was on all fours once more. Fenris’ arms quivered hopelessly though he tried to keep them steady.

Flavius lifted his robes and plunged himself inside of Fenris’ already raw asshole. Biting his lower lip, Fenris stared forward into the crowd. People dazed and people drinking. People paired off and leaving together. People who showed no mercy and no compassion. It was just as well; he expected none.

Shaking and caught in the waves of Flavius’ movements, Fenris was about to turn his eyes downward once more when he caught sight of a girl. A girl who wasn’t drunk or dazed or looking for someone with whom to find a night of shallow pleasure. She was looking dead ahead. She was looking at him with such fixed attention that he felt sure that nothing in the world could have drawn her eyes away at that moment. And her eyes—bright and brilliant as liquid gold—were not filled with lust or amusement or even contempt. She looked sad. She looked as if she wanted to turn her eyes away but couldn’t. He could see little of her face except for those large, limpid eyes; she had her hands cupped over her nose and mouth, as if she were contemplating raising them to cover her eyes. He wished she would cover her eyes. The way she was looking at him—with such overwhelming pity—reminded him of something that he’d spent so many years trying to forget. His body was his own and its shame was his as well. What was happening to his body at that moment was pitiful. It, and he, were being openly disgraced. Fenris couldn’t bear to look into her wretched face for a moment longer and, closing his eyes, he hung his head and waited for Flavius to cum.

The end was not as forthcoming as Fenris would have liked. It seemed that it was drawing near, however, when Flavius, pulling Fenris close to him, leaned forward to nip at the elf’s ears. The movements had taken on a frantic edge devoid of control. Flavius’ breath came sharply and unevenly as he moved. When he began to whisper, his voice was ragged. “What does he see in you? Is it this? Is this what you’re good for?” he hissed, his voice barely audible. “A great man… a great mage… fucking a damned, disobedient knife-ear. He deserves more. He deserves better. You worthless little shit. He should have stripped off your skin. If it were me, I would fuck you with a longsword. What does he see in you?” He seemed to lose his patience for language then, lost as he was in the sensations of the body tightening around his cock. Flavius reared back, grunting, and sent his seed sputtering into Fenris’ ass. Both sighed heavily when it was over. Flavius was gone from the platform even before Fenris fell, crumpled and used, into a shivering heap.

There were footfalls on the stairs and Fenris knew it was Danarius’ tread. He knew his master would not take him then; Danarius liked his playthings clean. Fenris rolled over and, from the flat of his back, looked up at his master’s smiling face. “Well? Did you enjoy yourself, my little wolf.”

“Yes, Master,” he answered. Yes was always the answer.

“Well!” exclaimed Danarius brightly, clapping his hands together. “In that case, I believe that there’s someone you should thank.”        

“Thank you, Master,” murmured Fenris weakly.

Danarius chuckled warmly. “No, no, not me. little Fenris.” Danarius looked up towards the crowd. Fenris didn’t bother turning his own head to see who it was that Danarius was eying. “Hawke, dear! Where’s dear, sweet Hawke? Oh, there you are, my dear! Why don’t you come and join us up here so Fenris can tell you how grateful he is for all you’ve done for him?”

Groaning from the effort, Fenris pulled himself onto his knees and then fell back to sitting on his heels. He looked towards the stairs and saw her. Had he imagined the look in her eyes only minutes before? It seemed impossible that she could have been close to tears not so very long ago when, now, she looked as if she might burst out laughing. “You flatter me with your attentions, my lord,” she said, her voice low and rich. As she mounted the stairs, Fenris saw that she walked almost like his master—her hips swaying from side to side far more than was necessary. “A personal audience with the star of the night. I’m honored.” She stood beside Danarius, the creamy fabric of her dress dragging through the mess of blood and semen that had accumulated on the platform.

Danarius lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it. “It’s no less than you deserve, my sweet child.” She laughed lightly at his words and squeezed his hand. Danarius smiled at her and then, raising his brow, turned to Fenris. “Well, Fenris? What are you waiting for? Thank your kind Mistress.” She was smiling down at Fenris, her eyes bright like coals from some fell fire.

Fenris wavered slightly from side to side as he focused his eyes on her face. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “You’re so very welcome, my little Fenris.” She turned towards Danarius. “You’ve done such a lovely job with him, my lord. To think that, only a few months ago, he was pulling at his leash and snapping at mages.” Fenris cocked his head slightly to the side in confusion. He had done no such thing.

“A little time and training can work wonders, my dear,” said Danarius, wrapping his arm around the girl’s shoulders and pulling her close to him. She smiled and allowed her head to fall against his bicep.

“I’d be honored if you’d show me some of your… training techniques,” she murmured against the Magister’s skin. “Seeing him like this—docile, obedient….” Her eyes flicked towards Fenris and then back to his master. “It makes me want to see if I can make him remember any of our old games.”

Danarius laughed throatily but Fenris could see the intrigue that had begun to burn in his master’s eyes. “Whatever did you have in mind, sweet Hawke?”

Her lips contorted, forming a crooked grin across her face. “A clean, shiny, little wolf at the end of a gilded leash. I wonder if you might teach me how to make him heel.” She looked up at Danarius through thick, dark lashes.

“That, I believe, could be arranged,” Danarius assured her. When he leaned forward to kiss her, the girl draped her arms over his shoulders and pulled him closer to her. Fenris turned his eyes towards the ground. Had all that blood really come from him? He let out a bark of laughter and fell. He was aware of nothing further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, disregard what I said in the note after Chapter Two; THIS was the longest sex scene in the history of mankind. Just kept going and going, didn’t it? I really did not mean for that to happen.  
> Anyway, it was sort of meant to be a gigantic boner-killer. Up until this point, Hawke has been mentally dealing with what she’s done, but she hasn’t really been confronted with it yet. I wanted her to be confronted with the consequences of her actions in a fairly graphic manner. Unfortunately, that meant that I needed to spend basically 7,000 words torturing one of my favorite characters. Don’t worry—I’ll be nice to him eventually.
> 
> Again, more OCs getting up to shenanigans. Sort of a necessity given that we know one person in all of the Imperium.
> 
> Also, a triple cock ring (or triple crown) is a device that you can look up if you have curiosity about it. I didn't really feel like delving into that here.


	8. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius and Hawke have an appointment with Fenris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: As with the last chapter, this one also deals with a lot of RAPE/NON-CON themes. It’s far less graphic than the last chapter, but still not recommended to those who are sensitive towards this kind of material.

Dawn was, perhaps, two or three hours away; the worst darkness of night had abated and now the skies that stretched above the Tevinter Imperium faded from blackness to a dull gray. As she took slow and deliberate strides around her room, Hawke glanced out the window and watched as the stars seemed to sputter out in the lightening sky. Her hand was extended to her side and, as she circled the room’s perimeter, tenuous strands of faintly glowing magic poured from her fingertips. Varric watched silently, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Suddenly, she came to a halt and turned to him with a smile. “Varric,” she said, “would you be a dear and go see if my earrings are out on the balcony? I might have left them there this afternoon.”

 “Sure thing, Hawke.” He walked out to the balcony, leaving the door open behind him, and turned to look at her.

“Now that I think of it,” she called after him, “I must have left them in my satchel.”

Varric reentered the room and gave her a reassuring nod. “Couldn’t hear a word, Hawke. We’re secure.”

It was welcome news that the sound barrier was fully functioning; now she could feel free to express herself. Of course, Hawke had never been very good at articulating her feelings and so she took another approach: she screamed. She felt the sound tear from her throat as her vocal chords rattled together violently, but it wasn’t satisfying. No amount of screaming or crying could begin to express the rage and frustration that she felt; the memory of standing impotently in a room full of Magisters, with no other choice but to watch, was too fresh in her mind. Erratically, she flew about the room, hurling her clothes to floor, viciously kicking the bedframe, and clawing at the walls. It wasn’t the least bit cathartic to take her anger out on inanimate objects. Worse yet, she couldn’t even break anything lest Danarius find out that she had wantonly destroyed his possessions. But she wanted to. She wanted to shatter everything in that room. She wanted to utterly and irrevocably destroy it and then go further. She wanted to burn the whole of the building to the ground. She wanted to burn the whole of Tevinter to the ground.

She did not calm herself quickly. It was only once she had punched, kicked, or otherwise battered every object in the room that she finally fell to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest and crying with dry, wracking sobs which were not accompanied by tears. The deep, shuddering breaths she took shook her entire body as she grappled unsuccessfully with the lump that had somehow lodged itself in her throat and was choking her. Though she was painfully aware of the melodrama and childishness of having such an outburst while there was work to be done, she was nonetheless unable to govern herself. “I’m going to kill him, Varric. I’m going to rip his skin off with my teeth and drink his blood. I’m going to make him wish he were never born.” She pulled her knees tighter to her body, bowing her head.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” Varric said, eyes slightly widened with surprise. “What happened in there?”

“You know what happened,” she spat bitterly. “They tortured him. It just kept going. Just this never-ending parade of people who were willing to do awful things to him. All of them. Every last one of those people is a monster.” Another dry sob shook her body. “And I’m worse than all of them because I made it happen. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Varric was silent, staring at her as she huddled on the floor as if she wanted to collapse in on herself. “Hawke,” he said as gently as he could, “you didn’t know what would happen.”

“Yes, I did!” she shouted, her voice breaking with a hysterical burst of laughter. “I knew! I knew exactly what I was condemning him to and I did it anyway. I didn’t care.”

He sighed. “Well, I hope you don’t think that weeping uncontrollably is a viable plan to get him out of here.”

She inhaled deeply and turned to look at him. “You're right,” she said, her voice shaking only a little. “Now isn’t the time for having a self-indulgent breakdown. But I do have a plan. And I’m sorry for the angst, Varric; I know how you hate that.”

He shrugged. “It’s alright, Hawke. I’ll leave your meltdown out of the final edit.”

“Thanks ever so.” Pulling herself to her feet, she continued, “Alright, by the end of the day tomorrow, we will either have Fenris out of this damned city or we’ll all have been horribly slaughtered.”

“Well, let’s hope that it’s a good plan then.”

“It’s not very good at all, actually,” she said flatly. “Its success is entirely dependent on my ability to manipulate men with my sexuality.”

Varric let out a short laugh. “You’ve had worse plans and somehow we’ve always managed to pull through. What did you have in mind?”

“Danarius and I have arranged to share Fenris,” she explained. “Tomorrow night. Frankly, I think that he would have gladly done it tonight, but Fenris was… he was injured.” She wiped her face with her hand, veiling her eyes for a moment before continuing. “Now, the arrangement is going to be a bit tricky. For one thing, I’m not entirely sure where on this estate the whole business is going to be carried out. For another thing, I didn’t want to make Danarius suspicious by suggesting that you and Sebastian be allowed to join us. It was easy enough, however, to suggest that Merrill join in and of course that despicable bastard didn’t have any trouble with that. On top of which, I’m relatively certain that, even in an intimate setting, Danarius will have bodyguards with him.” She took a steadying breath before continuing. “And then there’s Fenris….” She trailed off, turning her eyes towards the floor. “He’s not himself anymore, Varric. I don’t know how he’ll react to me trying to take him away from here. The only shred of hope that I have is that there’s still something in him that wants freedom. If I can’t get him to come willingly, then I suppose I’ll have to have Merrill put him to sleep until we get out of the city. With any luck, it’s easier to escape Tevinter than it is to invade it.”

Varric furrowed his brow, clearly in thought. “Just you and Daisy against a Magister, his guards, and possibly Fenris?”

“Well, it could also be me, Merrill, and Fenris against a Magister and his guards,” Hawke countered optimistically.

“Either way, it’s hardly a fair fight. And besides, Hawke, you’re crazier than I thought if you think that the Chantry Boy and I are just going to let you two have all the fun. What do you say we meet you there? Tail you to the final location, give you a little time to settle in, and then we can introduce the Magister to Bianca.”

“Can you guarantee that you won’t be seen? I don’t want Danarius to sense anything odd.”

Varric smiled crookedly. “I think you’ll find that he and I can be pretty stealthy when the occasion calls for it.”

She nodded. “Well, that’s as good a plan as I think we’re going to come up with,” she sighed. “Give me some time, though. I’m going to need a chance to make Fenris trust me. I haven’t a single bloody idea as to how I’m going to accomplish that miracle, but I have to try. But, if after thirty minutes or so I haven’t made my move, then I’m probably either dead or having sex with Danarius. Either way, it would be wonderful for you to pop in and kill him.”

“Sure thing, Hawke. We’re not going to let you and Merrill fall on the sword.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “I could have done without the double entendre, Varric.”

He grinned. “Completely accidental, I assure you. Anything else we need to hammer out before we all play hero?”

“Don’t we usually just charge in, flags waving, and hope for the best?” she said with a shrug.

“That’s usually about the size of it,” he laughed.

She crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. Though she wasn’t looking at him, he saw something in Hawke’s eyes. The resolve that had entered them as she had been focused on planning seemed to wane and was replaced by a startling softness. “Varric,” she said quietly, “if something happens to me… just keep trying, okay? I know that you pretend not to care, but I know you do. Whenever you can—if it’s tomorrow or ten years from now—just make sure that you get him out of here.” Her eyes flicked upwards, fixing on him. “Promise me, Varric.”

He looked at her, almost smiling. “I promise, Hawke.”

There was no more to say; nothing more that they could do at that moment. He left her then and she let down the barrier she’d put in place, knowing full well that, once the sun rose, the slaves would be coming to attend to her. Before crawling into bed, Hawke went around the room putting everything back in order that had fallen into disarray during her outburst; she couldn’t have the slaves suspect just how affected she had been by the night’s entertainment. Once she had put herself to bed, however, the sleep she found was the fragile, shallow sort that kept shattering and giving way to consciousness. Hawke was grateful when daybreak came and she could put an end to the ghastly enterprise of trying to find rest.

Though the sun had risen, she knew that it was unlikely that her attendants would arrive for several hours. Slaves woke with the sun but mages were not expected to do the same. There was no need to wait for them, however, in order to take a warm bath and ready herself for the day. The water from the night before was still in the brass tub and what sort of mage was incapable of heating up a little water on her own?

When she was clean—or when she had bathed, rather—Hawke sat on the delicate stool before the vanity table and began to diligently comb the knots from her hair. Blankly, she stared at herself in the mirror that hung before her; she stared at the purpled circles beneath hollow, dead eyes and thought of nothing. She did not dare to allow her mind to wander to anything of substance. There was not a thought in the world then that could do anything except for hurt her. Today was not the day to dwell on her fears, her guilt, or her sorrow.

Eventually, when the elves did come to attend to her, they told her sweetly that they had been hearing murmurings all through the palace that she had dazzled everyone the night before and that it was widely hoped that she would agree to stay in Tevinter as Danarius’ apprentice. They were more loquacious that morning than they had been the previous night, which could perhaps be attributed to the fact that she had not been unkind to them. As they fluttered about, arranging things and combing her already glossy hair, Hawke spoke to them, wheedling them for more information about all the wonderful things people had said about her. It seemed like the thing to do given the circumstances and she could think of nothing else to say that would seem suitably light. As they went on, answering all her inquiries, she stared at their reflections in the mirror as they moved about behind her. She wondered what their lives would have been like under other circumstances. Would they have been happier in an alienage somewhere? Would they have liked to live in the forests and mountainsides with the Dalish rather than wandering the artificial jungles created to suit Danarius’ whims? They were kind to her, she knew, partly because they knew of no other way to be. She wondered if any of them would ever have the chance to be cruel or angry or selfish. Probably not. It felt wrong to leave them here. It felt wrong that anyone should be left here. Still, she knew that she couldn’t take it upon herself to liberate all the slaves in the Imperium. She was not Andraste and this was not her holy war. All she could do was focus on the task at hand.

The red-headed elf—Leysa was her name—disappeared from the room for a moment and then returned, proudly bearing a parcel that had been tied with a black, satin ribbon. Feigning eagerness, Hawke unwrapped the gift Danarius had sent to her. When she first lay eyes on the box’s contents, she thought that it was Fenris’ armour—the armour that he had worn in Kirkwall. She soon saw, however, that it was a modified version that had been tailored for a female’s body. She wondered impassively if Danarius thought she was some sort of doll with which he could play dress-up. Perhaps he was right; there was no way that she could do anything but wear the attire that he kept sending her way. What a waste it had been to pack any clothes at all.

Hawke ran her hands over the armour, studying it. It had clearly been designed for appearances rather than practicality. The breastplate, rather than offering any sort of protection from being skewered, seemed designed solely to expose as much of her chest as possible. Furthermore, it looked as if it was going to end just above the bottom of her ribcage, which meant that her midriff would be entirely exposed. The jutting pauldrons, however, were much as she remembered them. It was a shame that Danarius had not also sent along some fashionable-yet-pointy gauntlets to wear; it might have been nice to have a weapon at her fingertips. In addition to the absence of gauntlets, there also appeared to be a definite lack of leg-coverings. Instead, it seemed as if she was going to have to wear a pair of rather skimpy smalls and a skirt that was so short it might have almost been called a belt. From what she could tell, given its fabric and design, the skirt was meant to be reminiscent of the tunic that Fenris had customarily worn with his armour. Hawke ran the cloth between her thumb and forefinger. It was indeed the same fabric; she remembered how he had felt beneath her hands.

Hawke laughed, looking up at the slaves. “Do you know what this is?” she asked merrily, as though it had amused her greatly.

“I believe you’re supposed to wear it when you go to meet Master,” Leysa told her.

“Yes, I know. I meant, do you know whose armour this is supposed to look like?”

The girls nodded hesitantly. “It’s like Fenris’. Like the armour he wore before he defied Master.”

Hawke nodded, still smiling. “It’s what he wore when I knew him,” she said simply, still feeling the cloth of the skirt gently with her fingertips. “Your master is indeed generous. Fenris was a fool to run from him.”

The enthusiasm with which they nodded sent a sickening thrill through Hawke’s stomach. “But Master restored him. He’s better now. You don’t need to worry that he’ll hurt you.” Hawke looked sideways at the girls. She wondered if they believed all the glowing things that they said about their master. It was impossible not to wonder just how complete their subservience was. But this was not the time to test them or to challenge them. Maybe someday, with an army…. Maybe then.

As the day wore on, she found herself eager and ready to fight. She felt the old heat returning to her blood as she waited, going about a day’s worth of mundane, unremarkable activities. The waiting invigorated her, filling her with the energy which a near-sleepless night had stripped her. She wondered if Danarius was filled with the same impatience. She hoped he was. She hoped that his desire for her and for Fenris made him reckless. She hoped that his desperate yearning would be met with only the cruel disappointment of his long, drawn-out death.

During the afternoon, she had gone to Merrill’s room for a supposedly casual visit. Though her intention was to ensure that Merrill felt comfortable with the plan, it seemed that Varric had already informed Merrill of what lay ahead of them. Even if she had been unaware, then she would have already found out that morning when Danarius sent over some clothing for her to wear during their recreational activities. Hawke scoffed. “Does he have an entire staff of seamstresses on call just to craft provocative outfits?”

Merrill brushed her hair behind one of her pointed ears. “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? I tried it on when the others left me alone for a moment. It was rather a shock when I caught sight of myself in the mirror.” She blushed at the memory.

Hawke grinned broadly. “Well, at least I won’t be the only one all tarted up. That’s some small comfort.” She cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably before adding, “But you don’t have to Merrill. If you don’t want to come, I’ll make some excuse about how you’re not feeling well or about how you only want to be touched by me. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Well, I—if it’s alright—I’d rather you were the only one to touch me. I don’t want to cause any trouble for you, but if there’s a way, then I’d rather not be touched by that horrid man.”

Hawke nodded decisively, smiling in a manner that she hoped was reassuring. “You’ve got it. I’m a terribly possessive lover and if he touches my sweet Merrill then I’ll be extremely cross.”

“Good,” sighed Merrill, allowing a hint of a relieved smile to cross her lips. “I’m glad I can be of some help then. Is there anything I can do? I feel odd just… waiting.”

“As do we all. But there’s nothing else we can do. It’s not as if we can pack up our bags and get ready for a trip without making anyone suspicious. I suppose that, if I could ask anything of you, it would be to make sure you’re mentally prepared for tonight. We have to be flawless.”

“I’ll try my very best.”

“Good. Thank you, Merrill. You’ve been amazing.”

After she was assured that Merrill would be in the right mindset for that night’s activities, Hawke quickly convened with Varric and Sebastian under the veil of a barrier in order to ensure that they too were ready for what was to come. She reminded them that it would be necessary to flee the estate as quickly as possible when their affair was through and that, since she and Merrill would not be able to do so, Varric and Sebastian ought to both pack small satchels filled with the basic implements needed for travel. The meeting could not last long given that any more long, secret conferences might awaken the suspicions of someone within the palace. They couldn’t risk that anyone would voice concerns to Danarius about their trustworthiness.

So, when nightfall drew near, Hawke was alone in her bedchamber. She had tried, without success, to get some sleep. It didn’t surprise her when she failed. When the elven slaves came to her just after sunset, she was sitting fully awake on the foot of her bed and staring at one of the many works of fiction that she had come across in her room.

Her attendants had come specifically for the purpose of making her ready for Danarius. Hawke couldn’t help but to wonder whose job it was in the household to orchestrate such events. Surely it was not simply Danarius who sent out groups of slaves to ready his guests for each and every social function. But then, perhaps he did not do so for all his guests. Perhaps he was keeping a special eye on her and her companions. The thought made her uneasy.

The mission of the slaves seemed to be to make her look as little like herself as possible. They scrubbed her skin violently with a soft-bristled brush as if they were trying to scrape off every trace of her skin; they made sure that her skin was free of hair. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she found that she was a smooth and hairless as a child. Or, she supposed, an elf. Elves, she knew, did not grow hair in the same places as humans or dwarves. It should not surprise her, therefore, that Danarius would prefer her this way. The elves covered her smoothed skin with the same fragrant oils that they had used the night before and she found herself smelling heavily of orange blossoms and verbena.

After everything—the skin, the hair, a preposterous amount of make-up—came the armour. Fully dressed like the doll she was, her reflection made her want to laugh. She looked like such a warped, distorted version of Fenris that she found it impossible to find anything the least bit attractive about her scant apparel. The elves, of course, assured her that she looked beautiful. Perhaps she did. She was so far beyond thinking of how she looked then that it hardly mattered. Her nerves had begun to hum in eager anticipation of slaughtering the Magister who waited for her. She wanted to paint her face with his blood and wear his viscera for a shawl. Perhaps that could be arranged.

When the skies were utterly dark outside her windows, they led her from her room. Many of the girls peeled off to complete other tasks, but Leysa—that redheaded girl who waited on her so diligently—led  Hawke onwards through winding stairways and long halls. Hawke could not feel the presence of either Sebastian or Varric; that was either very good or very bad. “I hope you at least know where we’re going,” laughed Hawke. “This place is enormous.”

“We’re leaving the main house,” Leysa told her.

“Oh.” Again, Hawke wasn’t sure whether this was good news or bad.

Merrill was just outside the door, already waiting for Hawke with an attendant of her own. Hawke smiled, wrapping an arm over Merrill’s bare shoulders. “There you are, darling,” she said fondly, kissing Merrill energetically on the cheek before looking her up and down. “Aren’t you just freezing?” She ran her hand over the gossamer fabric that allowed her to see right through to Merrill’s skin. “You look lovely, though. We may have to plead with Danarius to send us home with a few more of these fetching little outfits.”

Merrill flushed pink, pressing into the circle of Hawke’s embrace. “It’s a bit embarrassing,” she said with endearing shyness. “I don’t like being looked at by anyone besides you, ma vhenan.”

“I rather like it,” said Hawke, pressing her lips lightly against Merrill’s soft, black hair. “They can watch you and desire you, but your body is mine alone.”

Merrill chuckled. “It is a bit exciting, isn’t it?”

“So, are you ready to go, my love?”

“If you're with me.”

Hawke turned to the slaves. “Lead on, then! The anticipation is killing me.”

They were led through an open-air corridor over which arched a trellis that dripped with floral wines with which Hawke was unfamiliar. Their blossoms were small, white, and smelled of honey and clover. Overhead, the dark canvas of the sky was punctured with specks of light. Hawke hadn’t seen this many stars since she had lived in Lothering; it seemed that the atmospheric light in Kirkwall was such that true nightfall never came. Even though their journey was lit only by the silver light of the moon, the slaves seemed to know this path well. Clearly they had trod this path many times before.

After a time, they deviated from their covered path and turned down a trail that had been made with flagstones of irregular shapes and sizes. The stones were cool and faintly moist beneath Hawke’s bare feet. A short ways down the path, through a grove of willow trees that slouched dejectedly, Hawke could see the pale orange glow of firelight emanating from the windows of a small cottage. As she and the others drew nearer, she saw that the windows were all faintly ajar. She heard low voices coming from within. Leysa and Merrill’s attendant rapped on the wooden door in unison and, from within, came Danarius’ voice bidding them to enter. The slave girls bowed to the side as Merrill and Hawke made their entrance.

The room that she and Merrill entered was not large but it was certainly large enough for the purpose for which it was clearly designed. Though the room housed a large bed—its frame ornately carved and its bedding plush and inviting—that was not what drew the eye. Flush with the wall opposite the bed was a long table laden with instruments, some designed for pleasure and some for pain. Hawke’s eye roved over the table, studying the array of items displayed there. There was a vase filled with the same sort of long, sharp needles she’d seen the night before; a silver tray upon which glinted perilously sharp knives; a large phallic object made of blown glass; a dark, leather bullwhip curled like a snake; a cat-of-nine-tails resting lazily beside a riding crop. There were other objects too that Hawke could not name though she could guess for what they were used. She looked away from the table and towards the center of the room where Danarius stood.

“Danarius,” she cooed, dipping into a low curtsy, “Master of my heart and generous host.” She lifted herself upright, smiling slightly and watching him with half-lidded eyes.

He laughed under his breath and bowed. “My sweet Hawke, my little bird—let’s see if we can put that silver-tongue of yours to better use.”

“Happily,” she grinned. The Magister strode forward, welcoming her with a kiss. Hawke responded, lifting herself onto her toes to deepen the kiss as Danarius pressed against the line of her closed lips with his rough tongue, forcing them apart. His breath was clean and fresh, and yet the experience was oddly reminiscent of having her mouth invaded by an especially sweet-tasting slug. Even so, she allowed her body to fall against his while letting out a light, desperate moan of want. Her arms lifted around his shoulders and one of her hands curled gently into the hair that fell at the nape of his neck. Lightly, she ran her fingers over his shoulders and began to contemplate the situation in which she had found herself.

She had been right about the guards. There was one on either side of the door as well as two against the other wall as well. They were all four of them fully armed and, unlike her, dressed in armour that was not purely decorative. Merrill stood nearby the door, having been left behind when Hawke had thrown herself at Danarius.

And then there was Fenris. When she and Merrill had entered, he had been standing a pace or two behind Danarius with his eyes fixed resolutely on the floor. Though he heard them enter, he hadn’t looked up even for a moment. Hawke didn’t allow herself to look at him either and yet she was aware of him. His presence seemed to be screaming to her though no words were spoken and no looks exchanged. Hawke ground her hips against Danarius, eliciting a groan of pleasure.

Her odds did not look good. She and Merrill were vastly outnumbered and she had instructed Varric and Sebastian to give her time. Perhaps that hadn’t been the wisest thing to do; Danarius had lunged forward without preamble and now it seemed as though time was something she most certainly did not have.

Through the linen robes he wore, Hawke could feel the growing manifestations of Danarius’ desire. She spurred him onwards, moaning hungrily into his kiss while sliding one of her hands from his shoulder to his lower back, pulling his hips tighter against her undulating body. Then, abruptly, she drew back, smiling impishly. “Well, aren’t we being selfish,” she purred. “You know how Fenris hates to be left out of the fun.” She placed tented fingers on Danarius’ chest and, guiding him with the lightest of pushes, positioned him so that he was seated on the foot of the bed. She leaned forward, one hand cradling his skull as her lips slatted over his. When she drew back, he was grinning.

“You’re a woman with plans, I see,” he murmured, wizened hands running possessively over the bare skin of her back.

“A great many plans, I assure you,” she said, bending forward still further to run her hand across his thigh. “But not all of them are for you.” She stood upright, the smile on her lips barely visible. “I want to play with your toys.” She bit her lower lip allowing something like hopefulness to enter her eyes. “May I?”

He chuckled, his hands holding her hips. “By all means.”

“Good. Watch me.” She turned and his hands trailed off her skin as she walked away from him towards the table. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure where to begin. The idea of using some of these devices on Fenris was too embarrassing to contemplate. As her eyes fell on the glass phallus, she knew that she would never be able to muster the will to actually drive something like that inside of him. She had to fight back a blush at the mere thought. She ran her fingers over the devices, slowing wending her way down the table. Whatever she did, she knew that she was going to have to at least appear to be intending to hurt Fenris and yet, if she had to strike him, she didn’t want it to be overly painful. Fearing that she was drawing out her decision too much, she chose the riding crop almost impulsively. When she turned, Fenris was looking at her from the corner of his eye. She sneered and approached him.

He was dressed in his old armour save for the gauntlets. Hawke wondered why Danarius had done so, making her and Fenris a matched set. It might have been purely aesthetic or perhaps he thought it would amuse her to see the docile slave wearing the costume of the man she had known in Kirkwall. She stood before him, still smiling as she stared into his face.

“Merrill, dear,” she said, raising her voice slightly. Hawke looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Make sure you watch me closely. See all that I’ve been holding back. See how good I am to you.” Merrill’s eyes were wide as she stepped forward a pace or two, standing only a few feet away from Hawke.

Hawke turned back to Fenris, running her hand delicately over the black length of the riding crop. “Look at me.”

He lifted his gaze, meeting hers. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare into his eyes. She was searching for something. A shred of his obstinacy. Some hint of hatred or of resistance. Maybe even hope. But there was nothing. Just moss-green depths with nothing in them. She swallowed. “Kneel,” she ordered, keeping her voice firm. He obliged, averting his gaze from her as he did so. Lightly, she placed the tip of the riding crop on his chest and then proceeded to slowly run it upwards until it was beneath his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “Did I say you could look away?” she said acerbically, smiling with clenched teeth. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I am sorry.”

“Good.” She began to circle him appraisingly, the riding crop feather-light against him as she paced around him. “Such a good boy,” she murmured, plastering her face with a mocking smile. “So obedient. So good. On your knees like the good little pet you are.” The leather tip of the crop passed over his cheekbone, running just under his open and vacant eyes. He watched her, his eyes tracking her every movement. “I do love this side of you, Fenris.” She lowered the crop, letting it swing lazily in her hand as she lifted the other to lightly play with his hair. It was soft—almost like the feathers of a baby bird. She twirled a lock around one of her fingers, tugging at it. “But even at your strongest, you were still just a fragile little toy, weren’t you? Always blaming everybody else for your problems. Always whining and complaining. Baring your soul to anyone who pretended to care for you. It’s funny, isn’t it? To think that someone with so much potential could be so pathetic.” She lowered her hand from his hair and let it rest on his shoulder. She stooped forward, her lips barely brushing against his ear. “Is this really all you are?” She straightened, lifting the riding crop once more and smacking it against her open palm. “Stand up.”

He stood, movements smooth and graceful. She marveled at his composure; there was no possible way the he could be enjoying this and yet he made no complaint and offered no resistance. She was not sure whether this signified extraordinary strength or if it was an indication of just how irrevocably beaten down he had become.

“Strip,” she ordered, remembering that they were being observed by eager eyes. Fenris’ hands were steady and practiced as he removed the hard shell that covered his torso. It was necessary for him to lower his eyes as he did so and, as she stood watching him undress, Hawke suddenly felt sickeningly voyeuristic. Turning her gaze to Danarius, she bowed her head slightly and smiled at him. Though her display with Fenris had been relatively calm so far, she could tell that it had been pleasing to the Magister nonetheless. With one of his aged hands, he was rubbing lazily at the bulge that was evident beneath his robes. His eyes were still sharp and observant, but she could see already that they were fogging over with a haze of lust. Just a little bit further and he’d be off his guard. Abruptly, she stepped towards Fenris just as he'd shed his tunic. She grasped his hands, preventing him from undressing further. “Fenris,” she demanded, “tell me how much you love your master.”

Fenris’ eyes flicked over to Danarius and then back towards Hawke. “I love my master,” he said gruffly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Danarius slip his hands beneath his robes, moving them more fervently. “And yet you’re going to fuck me right in front of him?” She clucked her tongue. “That’s not very loyal of you.”

“I do as he asks of me,” he said, eyes meeting hers. As he answered, his voice was flat but in those eyes there was something. Something like annoyance. Something almost like he hated her. It was a look she knew; a look she remembered. It was subdued, hidden beneath a thick layer of impassivity and submissiveness, but it was there. The faintest glimmer of the Fenris she had known. The smile that spread across her face then was real.

Impulsively, she stepped forward and, with one of her hands at the nape of Fenris’ neck, pulled his lips over hers. She imagined that this, at least would hold Danarius’ attention for a bit longer. As if in confirmation of that, she heard him moan slightly. Close-mouthed, she held her lips to Fenris’ and mimicked the sound Danarius had made.

Beneath her hands and pressed against her body, Fenris stood still. He could feel the hand that had pulled him into the kiss seeming to grow lighter against his neck to the point where it scarcely had any weight at all. Her other hand, the one still holding that damned riding crop, was in a fist at the small of his back, pulling his hips towards her. Their bodies were flush together and, though she was the one who had positioned them in this manner, he found that she now held him in place with scarcely any force. In all his memory, lips had never pressed to his so lightly. He could barely feel the pressure she was exerting on him and yet that somehow served to make him all the more aware of her. She smelled sweetly of orange blossoms. She smelled of the springtime he had missed.

There was something in her touch—perhaps the lightness of it—that seemed to beg him to intensify the kiss. It was as though she was asking him to take control rather than exerting her will upon him. Why would she do that? He tested her, tentatively wrapping his arms around the small of her back and pulling her slightly closer to him. In response, she sighed contentedly against his lips. Everyone kept speaking as if he should know her. She spoke as if she knew him. How? His eyes fluttered open; hers were closed, her lashes casting shadows across her cheeks. He closed his eyes once more and pulled her tighter against his body. Her thigh shifted against him, her hips pressed against his and matched every shifting movement of his body. She was small for a human, he found, and fit well in his arms. It was odd that he should notice it.

It was odd also to be the driving force behind an embrace. Odd that she had not slid her tongue into his mouth. He considered running his tongue over the closed line of her lips, testing that boundary. He wondered if that’s what she was expecting him to do. Cautiously, he tried it. Her mouth opened to his and, daringly, he slipped his tongue inside. Her hips ground against his, showing approval of his initiative. It was a strange sensation having control of the speed and pace of the kiss and to have the sense that, if he wanted it to end, he would be allowed to stop it. He remembered the sadness that he had imagined in her eyes the night before.

Fenris did not anticipate being disappointed when the kiss ended, but when she pulled back, he heard himself groan in protest. She looked into his eyes, finding them glassy and unfocused. As she smiled at him, her expression nowhere near as malicious as it needed to be, his confusion showed. She stroked the nape of his neck lightly with her hand, meeting his gaze imploringly. Looking at her, he drew his brow slightly, trying to guess what it was she wanted from him. She leaned forward, her breath warm against his naked skin as she whispered, “Haven’t you ever wanted more?” Her tone conveyed more than her words and, somehow, he found that he knew what she was asking.

“Not anymore,” he sighed, turning his head towards her and hiding his mouth in her hair so that Danarius could not see his words.

She leaned forward, lightly kissing the lyrium tattoos that adorned the side of his neck and murmuring against his skin as she did so. “You were free once. You can be free again. Please. Please let me make you remember what it’s like to live as a free man.” Her hands slid lower, continuing the show, and tentatively dipped past his lower back to slide under his clothes to gently cup his ass beneath her palms. His muscles were firm under the light pressure of her hands. “Please let me show you the kind of man you were before.”

“How?” he breathed, his voice barely audible.

Hawke shifted her hips against him and, to her surprise, felt that he was hard. Something deep within her seemed to flip uncomfortably and, panicking, she pulled her body away slightly to ease the friction between their bodies. “Come with me. Run with me,” she whispered hurriedly, a note of pleading entering her voice. Off to the side, she heard Danarius. No doubt he was stroking himself more desperately now that she was blatantly groping Fenris’ ass. “Let me kill him. Don’t fight me.” She waited, but Fenris said nothing. “I know you have no reason to trust me. I know that. But please, Fenris. Please.” She leaned away from him, watching his expression.

It was only a moment, perhaps, but to Hawke it seemed infinitely longer. She didn’t know the man who stood before her and she could only guess at his reactions. Almost shaking, she looked at him with naked eyes. “Please,” she breathed.

He nodded. It was barely a movement, but it was all she needed. Ecstatically, she leaned in once more and moved her lips against his. When she pulled away, her expression was hardened once more and infused with heat and lust. One hand remained resting on Fenris’ shoulder while the other, riding crop dropping from her fingers, extended out towards Danarius.

“I was wondering how long you were going to keep me in anticipation,” the magister said sensuously, rising from the bed and lifting his robes off over his head as he strode towards them. Admiringly, Hawke looked his body over and smiled.

“The wait makes it so much sweeter,” she mumbled, rising onto her toes to kiss Danarius. Just one powerful shock would be enough to knock him out for a moment. Then the guards. Then she’d finish him for good. Just one bolt of lightning would do. One of her hands rested on his neck as she pulled him into the kiss while the other hung at her side, power swelling in her palm.

She should have known better. Should have known that a Magister—a blood mage far more powerful than she—would be able to guess at her intentions. Of course he’d be able to sense the magic building in the room. She’d been naïve to suppose otherwise.

Danarius threw her from him with such force that she slid across the floor, her spine slamming brutally against the leg of the table. “Merrill!” she cried out, knowing even as she did so that it was already too late. The guards that had stood beside the door had pounced on the elf the moment Danarius had thrown Hawke to the floor. Merrill was crying out, struggling and trying to cast, but they pinned her hands against the wall, binding her movements and her ability to use her magic.

Desperately, and in spite of the pain that radiated from where her spine had been deeply bruised, Hawke sent the lightning hurtling for Danarius’ heart. It was too late. He had erected a glowing, spherical barrier around himself now which she could not penetrate.

The other pair of guards came for her, slamming her face-down onto the floor and clutching her wrists. She flailed against them, screaming as loudly as she could in the vain hope that Varric and Sebastian would hear her. Though she bucked against the guards, she could not dislodge them.

“Tie her wrists,” Danarius ordered, letting his personal barrier drop as the threat passed. As his guards followed his instruction, Danarius erected a new barrier: one which encapsulated the room, shutting out all chance of intruders and any shadow of hope for rescue. Wild-eyed, Hawke looked up at Danarius.

He was smiling. “I thought you were more clever than this, dear girl. To have the gall to think that you could take on a Magister?” He shook his head. “How little you know of power. Would you like a lesson in it? I believe I have the time for such instruction. Time enough to show you the power I have. The power you will never have.” His grin widened. “Guards,” he said jovially, “relieve Serrah Hawke of the clothes I have so generously bestowed upon her.”

They bore down upon her. Her magic was useless without her hands, but she tried. Frantically, she kicked her legs out like a child in tantrum; once or twice she made contact before one of the guards hurled the weight of his entire body across her thighs, pinning them to the floor. The other was fumbling to remove her breastplate but she squirmed industriously, snapping her teeth at him. She managed to catch the flesh of his forearm in her mouth. Blood poured into her mouth as she clenched down her jaw with all her might and jerked her head viciously to the side. In response, the guard slammed his free hand down on her throat. She gasped for air, coughing violently. She’d released his arm, which was now missing only a small piece of skin, and now he held her by the throat, pinning her even more securely to the floor. “We can’t get the bitch out of her armour if she struggles like this,” the wounded guard objected.

Danarius chuckled. “Very true. But you’ll have help. Fenris?”

Hawke’s heart was beating painfully and merely taking in breath was a struggle. She tried to lift her head to see Fenris’ face, but the guard slammed her head back against the floor. Somewhere off in the distance, somewhere beyond the blood that was pounding deafeningly in her ears, she heard Merrill shouting, fighting. Hawke wished that she could tell her to stop. The last thing they needed was for Danarius to decide that both of them needed to be punished for this transgression. She tried to turn her head to look at Merrill but the grip around her throat tightened.

Hawke heard footsteps drawing near her and tried to move. It was impossible. She was trapped beneath the crushing force of the guards. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fenris looming. When he knelt beside her, leaning over her, she looked up desperately into his face. He wouldn’t meet her gaze now and she was no longer in the position to demand it of him. She felt her eyes growing hot with tears; she’d failed him. Now they no longer had even the element of surprise on their side. She’d failed and Fenris would pay the price for it for the rest of his life. 

She closed her eyes as she felt him begin to strip her of her breastplate. Her breath came in shallow gulps as he slipped it from her body. She was shaking now, trembling against the floor. She wanted to open her eyes, but she couldn’t look up at his blank, empty face. She couldn’t look at the guards who held her down, now gazing heavily at her naked skin. She tried to stop from shaking, tried to stop them from having the satisfaction of frightening her. But she was frightened. She was frightened as the guard who kept her lower half still forced her knees apart. She was frightened as the thin, delicate blade of a dagger cut away her meager skirt and smallclothes. She was frightened and, worst of all, they knew it.

Danarius laughed. “Well, that is lovely, isn’t it?” She heard his slow tread approaching her and opened her eyes. “Let the poor girl, see,” he told his guards. Obediently, one of them forced her torso upwards, knelt beneath her and laid her head propped up on his lap. He kept his hand locked painfully over her throat all the while. Danarius stood above her now, still bare and unashamed. Between her legs, still forcing them apart, was the second guard. His eyes roved over her exposed skin, a hungry glint in them that made her stomach turn. She took rapid, panicked breaths and could see the rise and fall of her body as she did so.

“Fuck you,” she hissed, scowling upwards at Danarius with as much rage as she could muster.

And of course he laughed at her. Brave words coming from someone incapable of doing anything but writhing helplessly. “Watch your tongue, Hawke; you’re too lovely a girl to have such a dirty mouth.” He turned his eyes downwards towards Fenris, a smile curling on his lips as he eyed his property. “Fenris,” Danarius said, his voice wheedling, “Don’t you think that she’s lovely?”

“Yes, Master.” His voice was low and flat once more.

“Wouldn’t you like to touch her, Fenris?”

“Yes, Master.”

Danarius gestured towards Hawke with his hand as though she were a feast laid out across the supper table. “Then, by all means, enjoy yourself, my little wolf. It would be a pity if you didn’t at least get a taste.”

Fenris looked at her and, when he met her eye, it felt as if he had done so by accident. Quickly, he looked away. “Yes, Master,” he repeated.

“Wonderful,” chuckled Danarius. “Soldier, make room between her thighs; give the lad his space.”

The guard’s grip on her legs loosened and Hawke took full advantage, bucking her hips and kicking out with her legs. The guard grunted as her heel made contact with his chin. “Oh, must I do everything myself,” lamented Danarius. He swept down beside her, wrenching one of her legs to the side while the guard took the other. She was immobilized now. With all the effort that it took to make her so, Hawke wondered that Danarius didn’t just fix her with a spell. But then again, maybe he liked to see her struggle.

She turned her eyes to the magister once more, erasing the fear and disgust she felt. “I’m still going to kill you,” she snarled.

“You’re welcome to try,” he said, his voice sickly sweet.

She felt a hand join the others on her skin and her gaze was diverted from Danarius’ face. It was as if Fenris had been reminding her of his presence, not wanting to go further until she was made aware of him. He met her eyes this time and the touch of pain she saw in them did little to comfort her as he crawled between her legs.

Hawke watched as Fenris bowed his head towards the apex of her thighs. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she felt his breath wash, hot and humid, across her bare femininity. His white hair fell forward over his forehead and brushed against her skin. She sobbed dryly and closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer. His lips were gentle as he pressed a light kiss to her inner thigh. Shivering, she fought back the urge to plead with him. Biting the inside of her cheek, she drew blood.

His tongue dipped against her gently and she shook convulsively as those damn tears tried to force their way out of her eyes. She would rather it have been Danarius. She would rather have been able to hate the man who lightly flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit, attempting to arouse her. Hate would have been better than this. But she couldn’t hate him as his mouth pressed against her. It wasn’t his fault. His mouth was so warm and his efforts so earnest. She couldn’t hate him, but she hated herself. Hated herself for having put them all in this position. Hated herself for wanting him to keep touching her. She hated herself for all the things that were her fault and a hundred things that weren’t.

She felt a shiver pass over her skin and gasped. Danarius laughed and her eyes started open. “Well done, my little wolf, I think you’ve snared a Hawke. And with so little effort. She really is a whore, isn’t she? Use your hands, Fenris; you’re making the poor thing desperate.”

Panic rushed through her, making her quiver violently. She felt Fenris’ long, tapered fingers run cautiously against her now slick entrance. She trembled, squeezing her eyes shut. “Please don’t,” she whispered and, immediately, wanted to clap her hands over her mouth.

Another peal of laughter, the guards joining in with Danarius now. “I’m sorry, Hawke,” laughed the Magister, “but Fenris only takes orders from his master.”

He was inside of her now, moving slowly but deliberately. He watched her reactions, learning where she was sensitive, and then bowed his head to her once more. She felt it more than she would have liked. Her damnable body, dependent on chemicals beyond her control, forced her to feel the pleasure of being explored. There was no fighting back tears now; they spilled across her cheeks as she fought back the sounds of her sobbing as well as the whine of pleasure that threatened to fight its way through her anger and sadness. She felt her muscles spasm against the hands that held her, felt the heat rising in her skin; she was gasping shallowly, almost there—when he was pulled away from her.

She screamed as Danarius cracked the riding crop against her cunt. Fenris had made her so sensitive, so receptive to touch. The shattering, sharp pain brought words to her mouth she didn’t mean to say. She hadn’t wanted to beg. She hadn’t wanted to cry and plead. But her voice and her flesh were no longer her own. She was at his mercy now. Maybe this was justice.

She felt the heat of Danarius’ warm body as he positioned himself above her. The hardness of his erection brushed against her, setting her shaking so violently that it seemed as if her bones would rattle down to dust.

He took his cock in his hand, rubbing it against her to gather some of her wetness. Her teeth tore at her inner cheek as she tried to bite back her sobbing pleas, but they fought past her lips. Her muscles tightened as he prepared to press himself inside of her. And then his body fell across her own, heavy and limp. Her skin—her whole body—was sprayed with something warm and wet. Opening her eyes, Hawke saw the thick blood that clung to her eyelashes. She looked down at the body that lay atop her. There was a large, gushing wound in his back that extended all the way out through his chest. The blood spilled over her even as his intestines began to spill from the open cavity that had been created in his body.

She looked up from the body and saw the glow of Fenris' lyrium, almost blinding, as he swiftly snapped the necks of the guards who held her. His movements were so quick that she could barely perceive him as he moved in on the others, driving his hands into their torsos and letting them fall limply to the floor in deep pools of their own blood.

It was silent then. The quiet pulsed in her ears and the metallic stench of blood flooded her nostrils, emanating from the dark liquid that covered her body and leaked from the corpse that rested upon her. Death had not freed Danarius of his erection and, overcome with a new wave of disgust, Hawke tried to squirm free from beneath the corpse that was draped heavily across her. She hadn’t the strength in her weakened, shaking limbs and the imprisoning weight of the body awoke new terror in her. She had only just whimpered when the weight was gone and the corpse cast roughly to the side.

Fenris stood above her, quite still and looking as if he were unsure of what he was supposed to do next. Then, hesitantly, he knelt at Hawke’s side and deftly unfastened the ties that had bound her wrists. When he touched her, easing her slightly away from the floor so that he could reach her bindings, his fingers were light and unsteady against her skin. When he rose again, looking down at Hawke with uncertainty still in his eyes, Fenris slowly held out his blood-drenched hand. She reached up to him, letting him pull her to her feet. Her legs shook beneath her weight, but she grasped his forearm for support. She might have thanked him, but in that instant Danarius' barrier fell and the door was thrown open. Varric and Sebastian and rushed in, somewhat breathless and bruised from having fought an impenetrable door as they had tried in vain to reach her. They looked frantically around the room, but when they saw that all threats had been dispatched, they could look only at her. She looked back at them, too tired and drained to care about something as trivial as hiding her nakedness.

Sebastian moved to the bed and yanked off one of the blankets that lay across it. He came towards her, eyes fixed on her face, and draped it around her shoulders. She lifted her hands, pulling it tightly around herself. “Are you...?” he began, looking gravely into her eyes.

“I'm fine,” Hawke said, answering the question he'd been unable to ask.

Again, that deafening silence. A room full of people and no one could think of anything to say. Hawke laughed quaveringly. “Well, the plan really fell apart there, didn’t it?”

“Hawke….” began Merrill in a gentle voice. Hawke shook her head to cut her off.

“No. This isn’t the time for that. I’m fine. We have to go.” In the corner, she saw a wash basin filled with water. She moved to it and released the blanket that she held around herself. Dipping it into the water, she attempted to clean the blood off her skin where it would be most conspicuous—her face, her arms.

“Fenris,” she said, turning to him. “Get the blood off yourself as best you can.” She held out the sopping wet blanket to him. He seemed startled that she had spoken to him, but he came forward. “Alright,” Hawke said, making her way over to the others. "Does anyone have any clothes they can lend me? I seem to be without.”

As instructed, Varric and Sebastian had each prepared small satchels filled with only the most basic necessities that they would need while they were on the run. Fortunately, that seemed to have included a single change of clothes for each of them. Hawke, and Merrill as well, clad themselves in simple mages’ robes. While they changed, Sebastian stared fixedly at the wall. “We have to go,” Hawke sighed, glad to have to warmth of clothing around her once more. She turned towards the back of the room. “Fenris?” Again, he started when she said his name. “Come on, Fenris,” she added, holding out her hand to him.

He slunk towards her, his eyes downcast, and grasped her hand. “Good,” she murmured, squeezing his hand gently. “Let’s get out of this shithole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Damn, when are people going to just have some nice, tender sex in this story? Were the world mine, immediately. But that wouldn’t make any sense, would it? Therefore, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to be mean for just a bit longer. My condolences.
> 
> B) I feel as if it behooves me to talk about this chapter. This note is largely my inane ramblings so feel free to move on with your day/night. With the Hawke/Danarius business, I really couldn’t decide whether or not to go all the way with the sexual assault. Ultimately, I chose not to because Hawke’s story here is really more about the emotional stains created when you make a terrible choice and then realize that there’s no easy Undo Button. Adding another level to that seemed unnecessary to me. Granted, sexual assault is traumatizing whether there’s penetration or not… but this is neither the time nor the place for that discussion.
> 
> C) Sebastian and Varric show up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks.
> 
> D) I also was originally going to make her be a lot rougher with Fenris than she is here in a real effort to sell it to Danarius. But as I was writing it, it felt oddly out of character. Granted, she's not a great person but she's still upset by what she saw the night before. She really doesn't want to force Fenris into anything that he's uncomfortable with.


	9. Stranger Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang heads South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains references to past rape. If you've made it this far, then this chapter is going to be practically G-rated. Still, thought I might as well mention it.

Hawke found that her value of human life had dropped considerably. In the past, she might have hesitated before taking lives. Not much, but she might have hesitated for a fraction of a second at least. As they made their way through the darkness of Danarius’ estate however, she did not even give even that much hesitation before striking down any moving thing that seemed to lay eyes on them. Somewhere behind her, she heard Varric whisper that she should keep it together. She ignored him; the fact that he’d even suggest something like that made her want to throw a fireball into his preposterous chest hair. They couldn’t take the risk that someone who saw them would suspect something and report them to someone; they’d taken enough risks.

Whenever she cast, she felt Fenris flinch at her side. Even so, he continued to hold her hand as if her were afraid to let it go. It pained her; Fenris had never held her hand before. The Fenris she had known had, more than once, expressed how vehemently he hated being touched by her. Still, it was for the best that he stayed close to her now; she whispered that she did not know her way around the estate and that she would need his help. Quietly, he led her through the groves of trees that largely kept them concealed from view. As they drew near the gates, however, there was no such chance of remaining hidden. It was lucky then that Hawke was not in the right frame of mind to show mercy for the dead magister’s guards. She looked at them, gathered together at their stations and keeping watch. They could not see her as she stood in the shadows of the trees; she felt herself shaking.

“Merrill,” she said, her voice calmer than she felt, “engulf them with every horrible, scarring spell you have.” Hawke felt heat rising in her hands, coursing over her skin like fire she was conjuring. “I’m going to see to their cremation.”

Flames engulfed the watch towers of the wall, falling in searing orbs from the air. A biting purple cloud of entropic magic consumed the guards that lined the bridge. Before they fall, some of the guards fired arrows blindly at their unseen foes. Their efforts were wasted. Though more guards came forth, drawn by the thunder of Hawke’s lightning and the soft, bitter hissing of Merrill’s spells, they continued to fall like flies under a furious onslaught that could only have been manifested with the purest rage.

At last, it was still. The bodies that littered the ground were charred, scorched, and almost unrecognizable as human. “Danarius should have hired more resilient soldiers,” Hawke said coolly. “He should have hired dwarves if he planned on fighting mages.”

“I’ve never understood how anyone gets by without the help of a dwarf,” agreed Varric.

The lever to open the gates was located high in one of the towers; Sebastian and Merrill kept watch as the others moved to the top of the tower, picking over still-smoldering bodies as they did so. The air smelt of flesh burning wetly and charred hair. Fenris held his breath, pressing closer to Hawke’s side. She looked at him, his head was bowed and the muscles of his jaw tense. Quickly, she looked away, dropping his hand.

The streets of Minrathous were nearly clear so late at night. Even so, they walked carefully, sticking close to the sides of buildings and wending down alleys that were not so well lit as the main city streets. None of them knew the way, though they had Varric attempting to make sense of the map they had brought along. Fortunately, the city had been planned with attention given to order and symmetry; it was not long before they developed a sense of how these roads were configured.

Once they had left Danarius’ property, Hawke stayed her hand with greater frequency. The spells she cast on those they passed no longer stripped flesh from bone and, though she did summon force from the heavens to knock passersby sharply to the ground, they were left unconscious but still alive. It was infrequent that anyone crossed the path, but the others noticed the change in her behavior even so. Merrill and Varric exchanged a clandestine look of relief.

The time for restraint ended, however, when they reached the exit that led southwards along the Imperial Highway. It had been miles, but their pace had been swift and night still hid them well from sight. The security at these gates had lessened since the barbarians had invaded all those years ago. The Imperium, like all nations, had to be open to trade and, in order for their trade to flourish, their roads were more open now that the empire had crumbled. However, there were still guards positioned to check travel papers and insure that no undesirables entered the city. It was too bad, Hawke thought, that they had not taken safer jobs. Their lives were short and their ends abrupt. Relief washed over Hawke and the others as they passed through the gargantuan arc that stretched above the Imperial Highway, ushering their way free of Minrathous.

However, even their flight from the city by no means guaranteed their safety. Even outside those towering walls, the landscape was littered with the homes and lands of enemies. There could be no peace with the blood mages of the Imperium so close on their heels and with countless, unknown enemies lurking in the shade around every turn. Minrathous disappeared from sight and, as the hours wore on, they ran frantically into the forests and foothills that lay to the west of the Imperial Highway. Darkness came and hid the earth and the underbrush from sight and, as they ran onwards, stumbling was frequent. The woods were thick where they were now and the night sky was all but obscured. The light of the moon and the stars was well blocked and Hawke insisted that they use no spells to light their way lest such magic attract attention. She took the lead, with Sebastian at her heels and Merrill and Varric panting off somewhere at the rear of the party. At first, Fenris had tripped along a few paces behind Hawke, but after he stumbled over an errant root, she had taken up his hand once more and dragged him along at her side. Neither of them fell after that. If she stumbled, he steadied her and it was the same and she did the same for him one the occasions when the undergrowth caught his feet. She could feel the pulse of his blood through his skin as she clutched his hand and, mingling with that thrumming beat, she felt the dazzling blush of lyrium. He held her hand tighter, fingernails pressing into her skin. She thought of the blood still trapped beneath those nails.

“Come on, Fenris,” she muttered unnecessarily, spurring him on though they were already running at a sprint. He did not respond but she felt the lean muscles of his fingers twitch against her hand. She responsed in kind, wishing she had the strength to hold his hand tighter; she wished she had the strength the hold him so tightly that she could fuse his body entirely with her own and protect him from all the harm the brutal world had to offer.

Even if she had been able to guard him in such a way, however, she knew she would be unable to fully guard him from the horrors that threatened to press in on them. It did not escape her notice that it had been he who had saved her from Danarius in the end. She had been rash and thoughtless and her lack of planning and foresight had left her exposed. But there was no time for thinking of that now, though she felt the pit of her stomach flood with anxiety at the memory of Danarius’s hands pressing into the flesh of her thighs as he splayed her legs apart. Even now, she felt the bruises of his touch on her skin. Suddenly the forest seemed darker than before and the cold of the night air seemed to seep into her bones with greater intensity. Hawke felt the surge of adrenaline and the rising of goosebumps across her arms and hairless legs. This was unsurprising; the robes she wore then were insufficient to keep the cold air of night at bay.

She fought back the memories of the night that hummed throughout her body and encroached on her mind. She focused instead on running and keeping her breath steady. Behind her, she could hear the others breathing raggedly. Not Fenris. She could not hear his breath at all though he was right beside her. If she had not been holding his hand then she might have wondered if he was there at all. Almost disbelieving of even that evidence, she clutched still more tightly to his hand, pulling him closer to her as they plummeted onwards through the woods.

There was a short, cut-off cry from the rear of the party as Merrill tripped and fell to the ground. Hawke kept running; Merrill would be able to catch up. She and Fenris were several yards in front of the others when she heard Varric shout out, “Hawke! Hawke, would you just slow down for a second!”

She stopped in her tracks and yanked Fenris back towards her when he did not do the same. Hawke turned, grudgingly walking back towards the sounds of the others. There was a soft, restrained whimpering that she knew came from Merrill. “I’m sorry, Hawke,” Merrill murmured when they were close to one another. “I turned my ankle over a branch.”

Hawke knelt beside her and fumbled around in the darkness. “A little light, Merrill,” she muttered. A dim purple light, the color of weathered lilac, rose around Merrill’s hands. “Thank you,” Hawke said pulling up the hem of Merrill’s robe to examine her ankles. Her own hands began to shine with a pale white light as she pressed her hands to Merrill’s ankle. Merrill sighed as she gentle healing magic crept beneath her skin. “There,” said Hawke with a tense smile. “Do you think you can keep up now?”

“Hawke, we can’t keep going like this,” said Varric indignantly. “You have to bear in mind that that dwarves and elves aren’t gifted with long, lanky human legs.”

She let out a heavy sigh of frustration, pulling herself up to her feet. “This isn’t easy for me either, Varric,” she said sharply. “Do you think that I like tearing my way through the wilderness? I’m tired, I’m breathless, and I’m fairly certain that my hipbones were wrenched from their sockets at some point this evening. But we have to keep going. We have to keep going until we can’t go any further.”

“We _can’t_ go any further,” Sebastian said, his voice low. “It wouldn’t be terrible to make camp for a short while, Hawke. Just a few brief hours won’t do any harm. They’ll assume that we went to the docks and there’s no guarantee that anyone will even be looking for us at all.”

“He’s right, Hawke,” Varric agreed. “From everything we’ve seen and heard of Tevinter, most of the magisters will just be glad to be rid of competition. Isn’t that right, elf?” He turned his eyes towards Fenris but, seeing no response from the elf, he added, “Fenris?”

Fenris seemed shocked beyond measure that someone had addressed him directly. He had been standing a foot or so to Hawke’s side, shifting from foot to foot and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. When Varric spoke to him, Fenris started almost as if he had been struck. Tentatively, he met Varric’s eyes. “I… I am sorry. I did not hear your question.” As he spoke, he edged closer to Hawke as if he thought that he might be in need of her protection.

Varric’s eyes widened slightly, the timidity of Fenris’ demeanor taking him by surprise. It was too easy to forget that the elf they had rescued was not the same one that had been taken from them. “That’s alright,” he said slowly. “I only asked if you knew of anyone who might come looking for us after they find the bodies. Someone who might have a thirst for revenge or what have you.”

The idea of answering this question seemed to puzzle Fenris. He furrowed his brow thoughtfully and looked to Hawke, as if he were checking with her to make sure that it was alright to speak. The look stung her. She was not his new master, after all, and it pained her that he thought himself in need of someone to obey. But she nodded, giving him permission to continue. “Master is a man with great influence,” he grumbled, shifting his weight and losing the nerve to look directly into Varric’s eyes. “But the other mages will be glad to take some of that influence for their own. His apprentice, perhaps, may search for me. I can think of no one else.” He looked up at Hawke, checking to see if his answer was acceptable to her. She knit her brow.

“Danarius is no longer your master, Fenris,” she whispered, gently rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. “You can call him by his name.”

“Yes, of course,” he muttered hurriedly. “Danarius.” It sounded as if saying the name cost him a great deal of effort.

Hawke smiled at him with approval and then, allowing her face to show the worry she felt, she turned to face the others. “We can rest. I can hear water not far off—a waterfall or a brook or something. We’ll go to the waterside and make camp. Eat, drink, sleep. But by morning you will all be ready to move or so help me….” She looked at them sternly and then turned, dropping Fenris’ hand as she moved forwards, and went at a slowed pace towards the sound of running water. The others followed after her.

The water, its surface shaking beneath the chilling night wind, caught the light like a pool of broken glass. In the distance, catching the moonlight, Hawke could see a waterfall breaking jaggedly over a cliff of rock. The wet, heavy smell of damp earth and moss filled the air as she approached the riverbank. As the sight and smells of the lake and the falls washed over her, it occurred to Hawke just how dry her throat was. As if carried along by some invisible force, she felt herself carried to the water’s edge. She fell forward, crumbling to her knees and plunging her cupped hands into the water. The ground, thick with pale green lichen, was moist and soft under her knees. At the edge of the clearing, still amongst the trees, the others watched her. They watched her as her muscles began to tremble. For hours now, perhaps days, she had been carried by adrenaline alone. Now, as the quaking of her nerves waned, she toppled over onto her side and lay on the soft bed of moss.

Her eyes were open, watching the water as it rose and fell along the shore. An errant wave, larger than its fellows, rose to kiss her outstretched hand. She was aware of the sound of her companions rushing forward and she felt Sebastian’s large palm rest upon her shoulder. “Hawke?” Her shook her slightly.

She smiled, letting her eyes flutter shut. “I thought you all wanted to rest. I’m resting.” She chuckled to herself, letting her body relax and sink into the damp earth.

“No time for tents, then? Maker, you were in a hurry.” Varric laughed with some uneasiness in the sound.

Hawke groaned and opened her eyes. “Alright, if you all are going to make such a fuss about it then I’ll stand.” She sat up and held out a hand to Sebastian. He helped her stand. “So where do you lot want to set up tents?” she sighed, trying to steady her muscles as they shook from overuse. “Varric, you have the tents, don’t you? We are more or less dependent on the supplies you and Sebastian brought.”

“I have some sealed canvas in my pack, as does Varric, I believe,” Sebastian told her. Varric nodded in confirmation. “We can go back in the woods a ways and find some dry earth to make camp.”

“Sounds lovely. Two tents for five people should be quite reasonable. Merrill and I can share and you boys can snuggle up together. Unless it would please the gentlemen to sleep beside a lady rather than to spoon one another? I must say that the idea of sandwiching myself between two burly men such as yourselves does thrill me.” Hawke was looking off towards the trees while fruitlessly engaging in the fight against the quivering of her legs as she struggled to stand upright. The words spilled off her lips in a blasé, haphazard manner. She was scarcely aware of what she said but her words still managed to bring a blush to Sebastian’s cheeks and small smile to Varric’s lips. Fenris, on the other hand, looked vaguely alarmed. As he toyed with the hem of his tunic, he looked shiftily at Varric and Sebastian. As Hawke’s eyes wandered from the treeline to the her companions, her eyes fell on Fenris passingly. His discomfort was immediately evident to her.

“Fenris?” she said, stepping towards him as if he were a fawn ready to sprint away from her at the slightest provocation. “What would be best for you? If you’d like a shelter to yourself, then I can make a lean-to for you. I know that this must be a bit daunting—you don’t know any of us well—but I promise that we all just want you to feel as much at ease as possible.” She remembered watching Anders speak almost exactly these words to a young boy in the clinic once. The boy had died, if she remembered correctly, but Anders had used this cooing tone to soothe the child as he took his last breaths. This was as comforting as she knew how to be.

“I won’t be a burden. I’m not a child,” he muttered, fidgeting.

Hawke laughed. “I know that,” she said, her voice loosing its saccharinity. “Would you rather sleep with the boys or us girls? I don’t know what you’re used to.”

It took him a long moment to answer. These questions about his personal thoughts and preferences were not the sort he was accustomed to answering. “I… I would rather lie alone, if there were such an option.”

Hawke shrugged cavalierly. “Very well. In fact, I would expect as much. You always preferred a solitary life, now that I think of it.” She smiled brightly at him but he only tilted his head to one side, staring at her. Hawke had meant her smile and her chipper air to be reassuring but she now felt that she had somehow alienated him. It made sense, now that she considered it; she was, once more, alluding to a time before his memory. She laughed uncomfortably. “Or that’s how you were when I knew you. Anyway, let’s go find a place to rest, shall we!” She clapped her hands together decisively and trudged off into the woods, lighting the way for the others with the brilliant glow of her magic.

Just behind her she could hear Fenris plodding along through the dry twigs that lined the forest floor. His thoughts seemed to be almost palpable to her; she knew that he was trying to remember anything related to the people he was with now. She hadn’t given it a great deal of thought as they ran from Minrathous, but Fenris had taken an enormous leap of faith in following on along with him. He had no way of knowing that they were not simply slavers and thus far they had offered him no evidence to the contrary. Moreover, it must be frustrating for him to have people continually alluding to parts of his life of which he had no memory. This, she realized, would be very difficult to explain. Steadying herself for what she was sure would be a taxing conversation, Hawke fell back and walked at Fenris’s side.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she said, her voice kept low enough that the others would not hear her.

“I am sorry for it,” he mumbled, looking at the ground as he spoke. “I have tried to remember. Though I remember nothing before I received these markings, so it is unsurprising that I can retrieve no memories of you.”

Of course. His natural assumption would be that they’d met during that yawning gap in his memory. “You knew me after you received the markings, Fenris. When we were in Minrathous, I told you that you had been a free man and that you could be again. It wasn’t so long ago that you were free; less than a year, in fact.”

“That is… impossible.” He shook his head, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

“You might not remember, but it is true,” she said, uneasily brushing her hair behind her ear. “Surely there are some spots in your memory that you can’t make sense of? Missing pieces? Some scars that you didn’t have before? Hadriana?”

He looked at her quickly, as if he had forgotten to keep his eyes fixed on the ground. “Hadriana?” he echoed gruffly. “What… what do you know of her?”

Hawke felt a wave of excitement pass through her; she had caught his interest and even made him meet her eye. “Danarius never told you what happened to Hadriana, did he? She was there one day and gone the next. But he couldn’t tell you what happened to her because he didn’t want you remembering anything about the time when you were free of him.” She saw his pupils expanding slightly as he stared at her, his face illuminated by the light of her magic. The others were making a conscious effort to walk a ways away, just out of earshot. She felt a rush of gratitude towards them for that. “You ran, Fenris. You ran away and for years you kept running. Danarius kept sending slavers after you, trying to capture you, but you kept fighting them off. That’s how you met me. You asked for my help and I agreed to help you kill Danarius. He got away from us, but you and I kept helping each other. We were friends and for years we fought side by side. Finally, Danarius sent Hadriana to trap you. You and I went to confront her and we killed her, Fenris. You reached right into her chest and pulled out her heart the same way you did with Danarius and those guards.” Fenris stared at her blankly, as if she had spoken in another tongue. “I gather that she had it coming,” said Hawke, smiling shakily. He looked at the ground once more, moving forward mutely. “Should I not have told you?” asked Hawke. “Now that I think of it, I maybe should have left out the part with the heart. That was too graphic, I guess.” She was muttering mostly to herself, but he looked up and responded to her nonetheless.

“No,” he said abruptly. “I… I wish I could remember. Through all those years, I wanted her dead. Now… to know that it’s been done and that I took her life with my own hands….” He trailed off and shook his head, holding out one of his hands and staring at his fingers as he flexed them inwards towards his palm. “I only wish I could remember the look on her face.” As she looked at him, she saw that, though his eyes were filled with sadness and confusion, he was almost smiling

“Her eyes were wide,” smiled Hawke, recalling the scene vividly. She’d enjoyed it at the time; something about Fenris’ rage had thrilled her in a way she was unable to explain. Maybe she’d liked observing the honesty of his emotion. “Her mouth gaped like a fish as she choked on her own blood. Her mage robes soaked in the fluid, turning red as she lay dying on the ground.” Her smiled faded abruptly and she shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve said too much.”

“You were there when I… killed her?” asked Fenris hesitantly, glancing back in her direction once more. “Why did you allow it? You… are a mage.”

“A mage, yes, but not a magister. My allegiance then was to you.”

“You were my… ally?” The word felt strange on his tongue as he said it.

“Yes. I was then.”

“Hmph,” he grunted, looking at his feet once more.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I would like to,” he murmured.

There was nothing she could say. It would only waste her breath were she to try to convince him of her own benevolence. She was almost grateful to Varric when he called out, “Here’s as good a spot as any, Hawke.”

They had found themselves on a patch of reasonably level ground where they might well be able to make themselves comfortable. “Alright,” called Hawke. “Varric, why don’t you and Merrill gather some firewood while Sebastian sets up the tents? I’ll set up a protective barrier to keep out the more mundane predators.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Varric as he dropped his pack to the ground. “Come on, Daisy, stick close to me so you don’t get lost.”

As the others went about their appointed tasks, Fenris sat uncertainly with his spine pressed against a tree. In his experience, people generally told him what to do. Hawke had given him no instruction and he had not thought to ask. Asking only caused trouble and unnecessary grief. The dwarf and the female elf were out of sight but the humans remained. The girl—the one who was clearly in charge of them all—was casting a spell. With her brow drawn in concentration, she paced around the outer perimeter of the clearing and gestured occasionally with her hands. Fenris had seen Danarius cast such spells before they slept. He wondered how a mere spell could sense an enemy when he himself had so much difficulty discerning friend from foe.

It was difficult to make sense of anything now. His master was gone and he now found himself in the possession of a girl who claimed to know something of his life and the missing periods of time that had vanished from his mind. She spoke too gently to him—as if he were a wounded creature on the brink of death. When she touched him, her hands were soft and careful. Still, he knew that she was not harmless. She was powerful and she was a mage and from all he knew of the world those two qualities did not often come in the company of goodness. She had taken him from Danarius, but she was not his savior. All she had done was drag him into the dark unknown with little explanation as to why she would do so. She claimed that she wanted him to be free, but such a notion was ludicrous. Everything she said seemed odd and impossible. The idea that he had been free for years. The story of what had happened to Hadriana. There was no knowing if such things were true; she had no proof to offer. It was far more likely that this Hawke girl was just another mage who sought to use him for her own purposes. Still, there was a part of him that wanted to believe her. A part of him felt an ache of hope that he had never acknowledged before: the hope that he might someday be free. For so long, that had seemed an impossible dream. Now there was a stranger before him offering him the very thing he had never been able to admit to wanting. He could not believe that she was real. He could not believe she was honest.

Fenris watched the magic tendrils spilling from her fingertips and she walked in circles time and time again. Sometimes she passed near him and glanced his way, smiling slightly though her face remained tense with concentration. It made him uneasy when she looked at him. He remembered the way she had looked at him in Danarius’ palace. Her face had worn so many expressions. Pity, disgust, hatred, compassion, desperation, affection, lust. There was no knowing which face was her own. There was no telling truth from lies. Whatever the truth, he knew that she was a clever little actress. For a time she had even fooled Danarius. Fenris remembered the feel of Hawke’s breath as she had whispered conspiratorially in his ear. She had offered him freedom and then turned to Danarius to offer pleasure. She lied with ease. There was no trusting her. But he did not need to trust her. Even if she sought to keep him as her own, perhaps she would be a kind mistress. He bowed his head. His body felt heavy.

When he heard her sit beside him, he lifted his face to look at her. She was not smiling now, but looked grave and thoughtful. “I know you don’t believe me. And I could tell you stories about everything you and I have gone through together, but you wouldn’t know the truth from a lie. All I ask is that you at least give me the time to get you back home. Don’t go running off into the night and don’t rip my heart out or anything.” She smiled at him again, that sad, pleading smile she wore so often when she looked at him. “Just give me a little while to prove myself, alright?”

“Alright,” he said cautiously.

“Well, that’s a start.”

He stared at her, studying her face and trying to find truth in it. After a moment he turned from her, shaking his head. “This is without sense. To kill my master for a woman I have no memory of. It seems impossible that such a thing could have occurred.”

“I know,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them tightly. “But, whether or not you remember me or not, there must be some feeling of familiarity deep down. You wouldn’t have helped me otherwise.”

“I have no sense of familiarly,” he admitted. “I merely wanted the things you said to be true.”

“They are true,” she said insistently. “And you’re free now. And all of this will get easier… hopefully. Once we get you back to your own home and your own life.”

He lifted his head to look at her. “My own home?”

Her smile broadened. “I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? Back in Kirkwall—that’s where we all live—you have your own mansion in the nicest part of the city.” She shrugged. “It’s a little run-down and messy—you’re apparently not very good at tidying up after yourself—but it’s your home. Well, rightfully stolen anyway. It’s near my house and I always pester you by dropping by unannounced. You’d always shout at me for disrupting your solitude.” She chuckled under her breath. “But I kept doing it anyway.”

“My own home,” he marveled, the concept foreign to him.

“I think you always spent the majority of your time in the bedroom,” she went on, sensing that he liked this topic. “As far as I could tell, that was the only room you ever bothered to keep clean. Fresh linens, lovely draperies, and even a lute. I never saw you play it, but I assume you can. I picked it up once or twice and you kept it tuned so you must have used it often enough. I always wanted to hear to hear you play, but I never asked. ”

Her smile wavered as he looked at her. She felt herself being overly attentive and desperate. She wasn’t sure why she was being this way. It didn’t matter if he liked her or trusted her as long as he followed her. Besides, even if they became friends now, it was only a matter of time before someone told him the truth about her betrayal. Why should she bother to win over an elf she had never cared for a bit before? It must be somehow related to her guilt. She felt compelled to restore him to what he once was.

“We were… friends?” he ventured hesitantly, tilting his head slightly to the side.

She wanted to lie and, moreover, she wanted the lies she would tell to be true. But no. He’d find out the truth sooner or later. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We weren’t friends. We trusted each other and we helped each other, but that was the extent of it. You and I were too different, I think, and that kept us from being really close. I’m a mage, after all. Maybe you still hate mages, I don’t know, but you never liked me much.” She shrugged. “I wish it had been different, but that’s how it was.”

“But you came to Minrathous? For a slave who was not your friend?”

“You’re not a slave, Fenris,” she snapped sharply. Then, more gently, she added, “You weren’t when I knew you and you aren’t now. And maybe we weren’t friends, but I couldn’t just let you stay trapped in Tevinter with that man. I couldn’t let that happen to anyone.” She felt her eyes becoming cold as she spoke of Danarius. Fenris watched her face as she spoke and, to his surprise, he found his doubts about her waning. He believed her.

“I’m sorry,” he said after silence had stretched between them for several long moments. “I am sorry for the way I behaved.”

She shook her head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to apologize for, believe me.” A hard rock of guilt sat heavily at the pit of her stomach.

“No,” he insisted, unable to look at her as he spoke. “What I did was wrong. I do not know if there’s a word for it, but I… touched you when you asked me not to. I should not have.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Is there a word for it? When you take someone without permission?”

The guilt multiplied, spawning writhing snakes within her gut. It was unsurprising, she supposed, that Danarius had not taught Fenris some of the finer points of ethical sexual conduct. And yet he was apologizing to her. He had been used enough time to know what it felt like to lose control and be forced into unwanted intimacy with another. “There’s a word for it,” she choked, hating herself more with each passing moment. “It’s called rape.”

“Rape,” he repeated quietly, the word foreign to him. He nodded, contemplating the concept, before giving her a sidelong glance. “I’m sorry.”

She felt the bile rising in her throat and the hot burning in her eyes that she now knew was a precursor to tears. She fought them back. “Don’t be sorry,” she choked, staring fixedly at her knees. “Please don’t apologize to me. Please don’t. _I’m_ sorry. I should have tried harder. I should have kept you safe.”

He stared at her. Her cheeks were flushing red. Looking at her in distress made him feel uncertain. He hadn’t the faintest notion of what he was meant to do. “I do not know, but I am sure that you did all you could,” he said slowly.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she managed to say, rising to her feet. “If the others ask, tell them I’ve gone back to the water. I need to wash this blood off myself.” Hurriedly, she rushed off into the woods, offering no explanation to Sebastian as he called into the blackness after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really know anything about combat and so it’s really challenging for me to write. I might take a stab at it in later chapters, but in this one I sort of just wanted to get on the road and get going. So that's why the beginning part is so brief and hazy.
> 
> I justify the relative ease of their escape from Minrathous with the fact that the Imperium is in decay. I believe that in the codex it says that the walls used to be guarded by golems at the height of its power, but it is no longer. Like most things with the Imperium, I sort of just had to wing it.... So I imagined the Magisters mostly have their own private police forces and mercenaries (like the slavers sent after Fenris) and the city has relatively lax security because the estates are well-guarded. So once they get to the external gates of the city, I imagine that it’s easier to get out than in; they just have to kill some guards and then open the gate. I mean, if Hawke and her companions can take down a Qunari army, then it can’t be that hard to take down an unprepared group of guards.


	10. Warmth

Undressing at the water’s edge, Hawke could feel already that the dawn was coming for them. She could sense the gradual approach of the sun and the moment when it would emerge over the trees and bathe them in light, making them altogether too apparent to anyone who might be on their trail. But her companions were right; they couldn’t keep running forever. Her limbs ached and the mere thought of beginning the day anew and running once more through this uneven terrain was almost more than she could bear. As she waded into the water, carefully making her way across the slippery rocks that lined its bed, she felt those sore muscles numbing as the frigid water sapped her of her warmth. Good. It was better to be numb.

With broad strokes, she carried herself as far into the water as she could without fearing the current. She dipped below the surface to wet her hair but, once she was submerged, found that she was hesitant to rise once more. Slowly, she allowed herself to sink down deeper while the cold of the water pricked at her skin like pins. She felt the weight of the water as it both buoyed her and held her down simultaneously. For as long as she was able, she stayed below the surface. Her lungs, however, began to feel the strain of holding breath too long and her mind began to shout for fresh oxygen. Just a while longer, she forced herself to remain. Her body was panicking, pleading for air while she tried to master it with her mind. In the end, her desperation for oxygen drove her quickly to the surface like a cork popping free of a bottle. She gasped for air, relief surging through her body with each fresh breath.

“Hawke! Hawke, are you alright?”

Startled, Hawke turned to face towards shore. In the night, not so dark as it was before, she saw the faint outline of Merrill’s slight body as she paced anxiously alone the riverbank. Hawke sighed heavily, annoyed to have her solitude thusly disturbed. “Yes, Merrill,” she shouted back, her irritation slipping into her tone. “I’m just having a swim.”

“Oh,” called back Merrill, a light trill of nervous laughter in her voice. “When you went under so long, I thought you’d drowned. Goodness, aren’t you cold? It looks positively frigid.” She moved forwards to the water’s edge and dipped her toe into the water. Quickly, she withdrew her foot from the water and let out an exclamation of surprise.

Hawke sighed heavily and then, with several long strokes, swam for more shallow water. She stood on the pebbled floor of the river, water just lapping over her shoulders. Merrill was not so far off now and she could speak quietly as she said, “So you don’t want to come in for a swim, I take it?”

“I’d rather not, no,” Merrill owned, taking a seat on a rather large rock. “I just thought that I ought to come along and make sure that you weren’t attacked by wolves or something awful. There are an awful lot of creatures in these woods, after all.”

“There’s not a lot of wolves in this river,” Hawke replied flatly. “Why are you really here, Merrill?”

Merrill smiled sheepishly, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I know there’s a fair chance that you’d rather not talk about what went on in Tevinter, but I thought it best to offer you my ear. If you’d like to talk, that is. It must all be very hard for you.”

“Merrill,” snapped Hawke, “I don’t want to talk about it. And yes, it is very hard for me. I lost Anders, came all the way to the Tevinter Imperium, put everyone at risk, and failed horribly. All in all, I’d say that it’s been a fairly disastrous excursion, wouldn’t you?”

Merrill was silent for a moment, toying with the hem of her robes. “It may be a bit more complicated than you imagined, Hawke, but we have got Fenris back, haven’t we? That’s something, isn’t it?”

“But we don’t have him back do we!” shouted Hawke, finding herself shivering more from nerves than from the water’s chill. Inhaling deeply, she tried to lower the volume of her trembling voice as she added, “I have no idea who that person is. Do you? That’s not Fenris. If it were Fenris, he would have ripped my heart out instead of clinging to my hand like a lost child and apologizing endlessly for every little thing. He barely even looks like himself, Merrill! He’s never looked at me that way before. Maybe we have his body, but it’s not him. That’s over now. I can’t fix it. I can’t do anything.” The air seemed to choke her and, overwhelmed by the mere act of breathing, she dipped down below the water and sat on the its floor until she could stay no longer. She came to the surface with her eyes closed and her hair in a veil across her face.

“You know,” began Merrill slowly, “I could help him, I think, to get his memories back. I know you’d prefer that I didn’t use the Spirit’s magic, but there’s a chance that it could be of some use.”

Quickly, Hawke shook her head. She brushed the hair from her face and stared off along the bright surface of the water. “No. Fenris—he hates blood magic. Even if it did work, I’m not sure that it’s a good idea to go rooting around in his mind and uncovering hidden memories right now. The moment that he’s gets those memories back, he’ll rightly kill me, run off into the wilderness, and then he’ll be all on his own. Again. No. Maybe once we get back to Kirkwall we can reconsider… but not now. It’ll be better in Kirkwall. He has friends there—Donnic and Aveline and… my dog, I guess—and so maybe it will help him to have that kind of support.” She sighed raggedly, bowing her head and blowing out a stream of air that rippled across the water’s surface. “Thank you though. It’s a kind offer, Merrill, and I will consider it when the time comes."

Merrill smiled, pleased to hear how Hawke’s tone had calmed. “Well, I thought I might as well offer. It will be alright, Hawke. Perhaps better now that he won’t be shouting at you all the time.”

The last remark had been meant to lighten the mood, Hawke knew, and so she forced a weak smile. “Yeah,” she said hollowly. “Maybe this will be better.” She ran her hands up and down her arms, scrubbing at them. The blood had washed away now, but it was becoming increasingly clear that no amount of washing would help her to feel clean just then. With slow strides, she began to walk towards the shore. When she emerged, her body bathed in the light of the coming day, Merrill tilted her head downwards and, her cheeks colored with a blush, stared at her feet. Hawke dressed herself and announced to Merrill that she was decent. Together they headed through the woods towards camp. As they walked, Hawke broke several low-hanging, lush evergreen boughs from the trees; they would not be much, but they would be some shelter for Fenris at least.

When they returned to the others, the two canvas shelters had been erected and a small fire radiated warmth. Varric and Sebastian sat together on one side of the fire, speaking in hushed tones, while Fenris huddled alone across the flames. Seeing Hawke return, his face lit with relief. He quickly looked away from her however, and stared at the fire as if it held some terribly important secret he was trying to discern. Wordlessly, Hawke began to construct a lean-to against a large tree. It was hastily made and looked as if the most trifling breeze would bring it to the ground, but it would at least provide Fenris with a space that was his own.

“Alright, I’m exhausted and desperately need to go to bed” she said once she was finished. “Fenris?” She turned to face him and he glanced up to meet her eye. “Fenris, you can sleep over there. It’s not much, I know, but it’s something, I guess.”

The moment she had spoken, he went to the shelter and crawled in as if she had ordered him to do so. She watched him as he curled up in the shelter. Little time had passed before he, now further from the fire, began to shiver slightly. “Are you cold?”

He hesitated before answering, lifting his head to look at her and make sure she had, in fact, been speaking to him. “I’ll be alright. Thank you.”

“You’re shivering.”

“It… it’s not very cold. You don’t need to concern yourself with me, I’m sure,” he muttered, laying his head back down once more and pillowing it on his arm. The trembling did not lessen though it was evident that he was making efforts to quell it.

“You know, the rest of us are going to be in proper shelters cuddled up with each other. The ground is cold and you’re further from the fire than we are. If you’re cold, you can just ask for the blanket.”

“I… did not know if I would be allowed,” he said slowly.

She huffed with frustration, crossing her arms across her chest. “Stop worrying about what’s allowed! Just… if you want something, take it. Just… do what you want.” With heavy, stomping footfalls, she walked to one of the satchels Varric and Sebastian had brought and yanked out the only blanket they had been able to bring along. She strode back towards Fenris, rolled up the blanket into a tighter ball, and hurled it at him. He started as it collided with his side and sat up, staring after her as she hurriedly dove into one of the tents. As he pulled the blanket over himself, he wondered what he had done to make her angry. She always seemed to be getting angry with him and her moods seemed to be without sense or pattern. It was baffling. He closed his eyes, lifting the blanket to his chin.

The others felt the discomfort that had arisen between Hawke and Fenris during their short exchange. Once the pair had laid down to sleep, no one felt particularly comfortable speaking, but they did exchange an awkward glance before slinking off into their respective tents. Sleep came quickly to them—the day had been long and arduous—but Fenris did not find rest so easily. It was not the hardness of the ground or the cold dew of morning that moistened the air, but rather the strange discomfort that came with sleeping so far from any other body. In Minrathous, he would have given everything in order to be in such a position. To be free of Danarius. To be far from the sounds of other slaves snoring intermittently in their sleep. To lie untouched by any groping, roving hand. He knew and felt that it was infinitely better to lie on the cool ground by himself than to curl on downy pillows at Danarius’ feet. Still, he couldn’t sleep. In Minrathous, he had known what he was. He had known what was expected of him. Now he was chided for obedience and shouted at for offering apologies. The girl and her followers were strangers to him and their expectations of him were uncomfortably nebulous. He shifted against the ground restlessly.

It was useless. He’d find no sleep if he lay there and, if he wearied too quickly the next day, he knew that the girl would be angry with him for slowing them down. Though it was still not entirely clear to him why she would have taken such great risk to take him from Danarius, he felt gratitude towards her for having done so. Though she made him uncertain with her ever-changing expressions and inscrutable moods, her proximity anchored him. After a moment’s hesitation, Fenris crawled from his shelter and walked softly towards the tent where Hawke slept. He stood outside the entrance for a moment, looking in upon where she lay, and then positioned himself curled beside the tent, pressing against the canvas. He could hear her low, steady breathing from inside the tent and felt himself calming as he matched the tempo of his breath to hers. As the sun rose into the sky, he passed into sleep.

It was well past dawn when Hawke woke. Varric, she found, had already risen and bathed; his hair was still wet as he sat beside a small fire he had revived just after waking. “How long should we let the others sleep?” she asked as she sat beside him.

Varric did not answer but, with an inclination of his head, directed her attention towards the tent she had just vacated. Puzzled, she looked back and saw where Fenris lay still pushed close up against where she had spent the early hours of the morning. Her eyes were fixed on his sleeping figure for a long moment; she watched the blanket rustle slightly as he shifted. Brow furrowed, she turned away, looking at the ground. “Oh,” she murmured. “Why would he do that?”

Varric chuckled under his breath. “I don’t know, Hawke, but I think the tame elf just might like you. Never thought I’d see the day.” He prodded at the fire, shifting one of the logs.

She shook her head. “He doesn’t know any better.” She rose abruptly from the ground, dusting off her robes with a quick swipe of her hands. “We should go kill something. They’ll be hungry when they wake up.”

“Whatever you say, Hawke.”

By midmorning, all had arisen and fed on a light breakfast. When they had cleared the camp of all sign of their presence, they began to move forward. Obligingly, though it wore on her considerably do so, Hawke soon gave in to the grumbled complaints of the others and moved at a slower pace than before. She was still relatively certain that their actions in the Imperium would have consequences. After all, as they had left the estate and the city, more than a few lives have been lost in the struggle. It seemed impossible that such loss of life could come without some form of retribution. And, though Danarius no longer lived to lay claim to Fenris, she could not ignore that others may have coveted him over the years. He had, of course, been a Magister’s prized pet.

As they moved forward, plunging through the rough, uncut terrain that Hawke insisted upon, she felt Fenris lingering beside her. Though the others were behind her, sometimes close by and sometimes several yards behind, Fenris was always near to Hawke’s side. Now and then his arm swung out to the side as if he wanted to cling to her once more. She gulped back that petulant lump that rose in her throat and moved forward without speaking with him. She could think of nothing to say. It was like walking with the ghost of the man she had killed. His hand swung to the side once more and snatched the hem of her sleeve. When she looked at him, his eyes were directed towards the ground in front of him and he seemed to need nothing from her. He had only found it impossible to keep himself from the comfort of her proximity. She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek and staring resolutely forward.

They travelled on in this manner, moving roughly in parallel to the Imperial Highway though they were now far from it. The thick expanses of forest and steep mountains that she dragged them through were challenging even for her and they made camp earlier that day than they had before. That night, Varric entertained the others with stories that were almost certainly entirely false. Hawke might have stayed among their party longer, allowing herself to relax in the pleasant comfort of their presence, but in the end she found that she could not bear it long. While Varric spoke, Merrill close at his side and Sebastian spinning a rabbit they had killed above the fire, Fenris sat near to Hawke with his knees pulled to his chest. The day had been taxing for her. In spite of her repeated remonstrances, he still would not take initiative in anything. Through their travel, it had been she who had needed to ask if he was hungry when she heard his stomach growling. It was she who had to ask if he were tired. The closest thing that he had come to expressing a thought or desire of his own was to ask if they would be allowed to stop so he could urinate. She had shouted at him that they would, of course, always stop if he were in need of it. But he still clung to her sleeve when they walked as though he were afraid that she would leave him on his own and still asked questions that were preposterous when uttered in his voice. That night, by the fire, he found the courage to look at her out of the corner of his eye. “If I’ve made you angry, I apologize,” he told her, his voice more steady than she would have expected. “I am uncertain of what it is that you expect of me. I’m sorry if I’ve caused offence.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” she muttered, shaking her head and staring into the fire. “I’m just… I’m just tired.” She stood, going into her tent before any of the others.

That night, she felt him lie down through the canvas. Close-eyed, she buried her face into the pillow of her arm and allowed a foolish tear to escape from her eye.

As the days wore on, his dependency on her only seemed to increase. It was clear that, much though he had hated Danarius, it was a struggle for him to be without some sort of instruction or guidance. He had been hurtled suddenly into a way of life that was completely beyond his ken and the girl he looked to as a leader seemed utterly unwilling to offer him any form of help or reassurance. Still, he found himself trailing after her and with each night that passed he pressed closer to where she slept. Hawke wished that she could tell him to stop. Wished that he didn’t trust her. Wished that she could look into his eyes and see suspicion and hatred. But he had come to trust her now and every sign of that trust made her ache.

The worst part of all of it was that the others were acting as if they had succeeded. While it was certainly true that her companions were demonstrably cautious around her, they seemed to grow more jovial as they travelled on with no sign of pursuers. Varric, for one, no longer held back his jocular commentary and the others, she noticed, felt at liberty to laugh. They had been kind enough to accompany her on this journey, she knew, and did not want to begrudge them their feelings of relief after an apparently successful expedition. But she could not share their relief. In fact, she felt worse with each passing day. She felt worse each time Fenris grabbed hold of her for security; she felt worse each time he looked to her for permission. With each passing day, she doubted more and more that his memory would ever return. And if it didn’t—if he stayed like this forever—then she wasn’t sure what she would do.

Moreover, it was becoming increasingly apparent that they would soon need to go into town to get supplies. Neither she nor Merrill had anything to channel their magic and it was getting bothersome to have to stop and hunt for every meal. The nights were getting colder as the weeks wore on and the need for blankets and thicker clothing was becoming somewhat desperate. Through the nights she could feel Fenris shuddering and hear the hammer of his teeth as they chattered together. It might be nice, Hawke thought, if they could buy some soap as well. Though the elves still smelt fairly pleasant, Hawke could smell the acrid scent of her old sweat wafting up from her robes each time she moved. She felt sorry for poor Merrill having to huddle together with her through the nights.

It was Varric who had, more or less, been tracking their progress on the map that they had brought along with them. One evening near sunset, when the wind was particularly bitter and Hawke felt most acutely the need for a thick blanket, she sat beside Varric to discuss the need to make their way towards civilization. “I was hoping you’d come around and suggest that,” he said with a smile. “I sure as hell wouldn’t mind spending a night or two in an inn while we stock up on the all and sundries. I’ve found myself growing nostalgic for the rat-flavoured swill they peddle at The Hanged Man.”

She smiled. “I’ll admit that I miss drinking myself into oblivion. But we can’t just go off into any quaint country village, Varric. We need to go to a town large enough that our arrival won’t attract much attention. Granted, we don’t have any indication that anyone is actually pursuing us, but we have to be cautious. So, where’s the nearest city?” They leaned over the map that was spread out on the ground.

“Well, thanks to your inventive trail-blazing travel arrangements, progress hasn’t been very fast-paced. Still, Vol Dorma is closer than anything else. All we have to do is forge our way through several miles of vertical wilderness, skip unseen across the Imperial Highaway, and we’ll find ourselves in a squallid shithole of a city.”

“Wonderful. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading down to fill the water skins before supper. Merrill, how’s that stew coming?”

Merrill, who was perched beside the fire over a small pot, looked up with a start. “It’s a bit thin,” she admitted, lifting up a ladleful and examining it as she poured it back into the pot, “but it will be quite flavorful. I found some herbs growing amongst the stones which are quite spicy.”

“Great,” said Hawke, clapping her hands together with an air of finality. “I’ll look forward to that then.” Rising from the ground, she went about gathering the skins they had been filling with water throughout their journey. She had made no more than a few steps down the slope towards the fresh water that babbled below when she felt Fenris at her side. She stopped abruptly in her tracks and looked over at him, her brow slightly furrowed. “No, Fenris. I need… to bathe, I guess. Would you just stay with the others for a moment? Just… please.” He fell back, a fleeting look crossing across his eyes that was as if she had kicked him. She rushed to the water so quickly that, once or twice, she nearly tumbled down the hillside.

Once she reached the water and had refilled the skins, she found herself unable to return. He would be there, waiting for her. A broken, fractured version of the man she had betrayed. And there was no Imperium for her to invade to restore what he had lost. A part of her wondered if it would have been better if Fenris had died. If he could have seen himself now, she had little doubt that he’d detest this warped version of himself that walked around in his skin. And there was no Danarius for her to overcome this time. There was only Fenris’ mind, acting as a prison for memories which might never emerge again. She buried her face in her hands.

It was not long before she heard footsteps approaching. Though she did not turn, she knew from the sound of his tread that it was Sebastian. She lifted her face from her hands, staring across the water. “What is it, Sebastian?” she called.

“Oh good, you’re clothed,” he said, his relief sounding almost genuine. “I worried you might be bathing.” He approached, sitting beside her. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Hawke.”

She exhaled heavily and turned to face him. “About what?”

“You know,” he began gently, “you might try being a bit kinder to Fenris. He’s been through much these past months and it only makes sense that he’d cleave to you.”

Hawke looked away from him, fidgeting slightly with the hems of her sleeves. “I know, Sebastian. I know I’m being short with him and I know that it’s unfair… but what do you want from me? I can’t be his crutch or his new master or even his friend. I just need to get him home; that’s all I can do for him now.”

“You can be his friend, Hawke. You don’t need to maintain the same sort of hostility that you showed him before he was taken.”

She bowed her head. “I can’t. He shouldn’t have depend on someone like me. I can’t let him think that I’m his friend after everything that I’ve done to him.” She paused before adding, a bit shakily, “It hurts, Sebastian.”

He allowed the silence to grow, looking at her with a soft expression in his blindingly blue eyes. “I know this is difficult, Hawke,” he said quietly. “But you must consider what this must be like for him. Of all of us, you’re the one he most trusts. Though it may be challenging for you, your kindness is all you can give to him now.” He rose from the ground and stood silently above her. Softly, he ran a broad hand over the crown of her head and added, “Consider that at least.” After he left, she remained alone on the shore for several long moments. By the time she began to make her way back to camp, the sun had fallen and darkness had swept across the terrain. Fenris sat away from the others, she saw, looking up now again towards where she had disappeared down the hill earlier. His back was pressed against a fallen log, his knees pulled tightly to his chest as he shook slightly from the cold. She wondered that he did not draw close to the fire beside the others.

As she approached the fire, she smiled. Merrill announced that they had saved some stew for her. “Oh, thank you,” said Hawke, surprised with herself for having forgotten. “Just… one moment, okay?” She knelt going through the packs and retrieving the blanket that, thus far, had been used solely by Fenris. Cradling it in her arms, she strode over to the log where Fenris sat. He looked up at her with wide green eyes that caught the gold of the fire as he gazed at her. Smiling gently, she knelt before him. “You’re cold, aren’t you?” she said softly as she wrapped the blanket over his shoulders. He grasped it, pulling it up towards his chin while, gently, she began to rub some warmth into his arms. “We’ll get you something a bit more cozy while we’re in town,” she assured him. “Maybe a cloak to wear over your armour? Some boots maybe and a nice fur blanket.” She continued to chafe his arms gently as she spoke, unable to look into his eyes and staring instead at where the blanket bunched in his hands. “Would you like that?”

He nodded hesitantly, his eyes fixed on her as he did so. “Yes. Thank you.”

She forced herself to look upwards into his eyes. His fair hair had fallen across his face, obscuring one of his eyes almost entirely from view. With gentle, careful hands, she reached out and pushed his hair back from his face. Her hand lingered, fingers resting on his temples after she had tucked his hair behind his ear. Instinctively, he tilted his head into the warmth of her hand, his eyes closing as he did so. Smiling, she brushed her thumb across his cheekbone. “It’ll be okay, Fenris,” she murmured, rising to her feet and fighting to keep the sadness out of her eyes. “Stay warm.” She turned quickly and made her way back towards the others.

Varric smirked up at her as he held out the bowl of stew to her. “That was awfully maternal of you, Hawke,” he said as she accepted the bowl from him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

She glanced quickly to Sebastian. “Yeah. Well, that’s what he needs from me now.” Quickly, she drank back the stew which was, in fact, almost thin enough to be called soup. Still, she expressed her appreciation for it to Merrill before disappearing into her tent.

That night, as with all the others, she heard Fenris curling up as near to her as the sealed cloth between them would allow. She lifted her fingers, pressing them against the side of the tent. Through the canvas, she could feel his warmth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) It made the most sense to me to have Merrill come after Hawke at the beginning of this chapter. After all, at the beginning of Act II, she does offer her condolences after your remaining sibling leaves. So she’s clearly someone who wants to make sure that Hawke feels emotionally stable. I think that Varric and Sebastian also, obviously, care about Hawke, but would be more hesitant to go after Hawke and talk feelings. At the end, I thought Sebastian would probably tell her to be a bit more compassionate. To be honest, the dude annoys the holy hell out of me, but he was always really kind to Fenris. I think Sebastian has a lot of sympathy for all Fenris has gone through and so he reminds her that, even though she's upset, this is not all about her.
> 
> 2) NOTE ON WEAPONS: Also, I’ve mentioned here that Merrill and Hawke don’t have any staffs. Now, when you see Olivia get cornered, the guys trying to capture her mention that mages aren’t supposed to be able to cast without the use of their hands. So I always sort of imagined that the magic was generated sort of from the body itself and then intensified by being channeled through the staff. Anyway, for the purposes of this story, I’m going to make the choice that magic doesn’t solely need to be channeled through a staff; other devices like crystals or rings or talismans can also serve that purpose. Why am I going to make that choice? Because that means mages would be able to, say, stroll around the Gallows without being immediately identifiable just by looking at the giant logs on their backs. Now, I get why in-game it would be unfair for the mages to be fully-functional without weapons while rogues and warriors had to scrimp and save for daggers, bows, swords, and shields. If anyone has any issues with that, then just let me know. I mean, it’s a small detail and crazy easy to change. Still, that’s what I was thinking of doing.


	11. Anaan Esaam Qun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives in Vol Dorma and discusses sleeping arrangements.

The first snowfall came when they were a day away from Vol Dorma. It made Hawke uneasy to watch their footprints impressed in the glittering white blanket that grew thicker on the ground all the time. As soon as the snow started falling, she had found a fallen tree branch with many thick clusters of needles and instructed Sebastian to drag it along behind their party. They trudged on through the snow in single file and the branch disrupted the footprints left in the snow enough to hide their numbers. Even so, if someone had been searching for their band, then it would still be altogether too apparent that travellers had come that way.

Serving to increase Hawke’s anxiety was the fact that they had already been skirting around small towns for the past two days. Though they had not been seen yet by the meager populations of these towns, there had, on more then one occasion, been the need to hide from passing groups of villagers. There was no denying that their group, if seen, would attract attention and commentary. For one thing, none of them (save for Varric, perhaps) were dressed appropriately for the weather. Merrill and Hawke both wore velvet robes that were thin, soiled, and verging on threadbare, Sebastian wore the armour that his father had commissioned which was anything but subtle, and Fenris’s arms and feet were bare and covered with goosebumps. Moreover, the lyrium tattoos that were branded into Fenris’s skin were certain to grab the attention of anyone who saw him. And a dwarf, two humans, and two elves, were not often seen travelling together. If anyone were to ask after them, then it was highly likely that they would be remembered. Hawke ran these things over and over in her mind as they moved onwards closer to more concentrated populations.

Vol Dorma was not nearly so large as Minrathous or, for that matter, even Kirkwall. Largely, it was used as a hub for merchants who were making their way down the Imperial Highway. It was not a practical trading center given the lack of access to the sea, but it was nonetheless frequented by a good many traders who were passing through on their way to more prosperous cities. Consequently, that worked out exceedingly well for Hawke and her companions. With the large amounts of turn-over of travellers, it was all the more likely that they would be able to blend-in with the crowds.

“We won’t be able to check-in to an inn all together, though,” pointed out Hawke as Vol Dorma came into sight. “While it’s true that we’re not going to be as conspicuous in a city as we would be in a smaller town, we’re still pretty damn noticeable.”

“We should still stick together in the same place,” Varric interjected. “In the event that some slavers made their way down the Highway ahead of us, I’d hate for you and the elf to get carted off while we’re busy knocking back drinks all the way across town.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed. “We’ll just have to stagger our arrivals then. How about Merrill and I check-in together? Varric, of course, can pose as a dwarven merchant with relative ease. And Sebastian, you’re wearing armour so you might as well pretend to be Varric’s bodyguard.”

“And the elf?” Varric asked.

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting back a tension headache. “Yes, I know. There’s no denying that Fenris has a rather, um, distinctive appearance.” She glanced over at him, saw the slight concern in his furrowed brow, and reached out to pat him lightly on his arm. “It’s alright; we’ll figure it out.” She turned back to Varric. “Merrill and I will go on ahead and, before we find an inn, we’ll try to buy a trunk off of an actual merchant. Now, since you’re going to pretend to be toting along some wares, we can hide Fenris in the trunk and pretend that he’s just a bunch of fabrics that you’re transporting. I know it won’t be comfortable, Fenris, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Would that be alright with you?”

He shuffled forward closer to her side. “You and I… won’t be together?”

“No, we will be,” she assured him. “It will only be for a little while. Once we get to the inn, you and I will share a room together.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you out of my sight for long.”

From the rear of the party, she heard Sebastian clear his throat. “Are you quite certain that that’s appropriate, Hawke?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Sebastian ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Is it quite appropriate for a young, unwed woman such as yourself to be sharing a room with a man?”

Hawke rolled her eyes and replied dryly, “Yes, because Maker knows that Fenris and I are going to be madly groping at each other the moment the door closes.” She laughed lightly and added, “Come now, Sebastian. There’s no need for all of that. We’ll have two rooms: one for you and Varric, and one for Merrill and I. Fenris, I suppose, can choose to join either pair.” She turned her eyes towards the subject of their conversation. He looked vaguely embarrassed to be the source of so much controversy. “Fenris? Would you rather sleep with me or with the boys?”

He hesitated, taking a long moment to consider what his answer ought to be. Ultimately, he murmured, “I’d prefer to remain at your side, if it creates no discord to do so.”

Hawke smiled brightly. “Perfect. And Sebastian,” she called, “with Merrill as our chaperone, you don’t need to worry. Merrill, you’ll keep me on my best behavior, won’t you?”

“Oh, what?” Varric repeated the question to Merrill in a whisper; she had, apparently, been distracted by a flock of geese that flew noisily overhead. “Oh, yes! Of course, Hawke!”

It was then that Hawke directed Varric, Sebastian, and Fenris to stay put whilst she and Merrill moved onwards. As she began to move away from them, she felt a small twinge of sadness to have to leave Fenris behind. She was becoming quite accustomed to his presence at her side. Since she had lost her family, no one had needed her with this sort of desperation. Though it made her insides heavy with guilt, it was oddly pleasant to feel responsibility for someone else once more. It was almost reminiscent of when her mabari had been nothing more than a keening pup. She wished that he had been able to find someone more worthy in whom to place his trust, but she could no longer deny him what little support she had to offer. When that trust was lost and that support no longer needed—well, she would deal with that when and if the time came. Until then, she would keep him close to her for as long as he needed her.

As she and Merrill entered Vol Dorma, Hawke was almost too tired to make note of much. She noticed that the buildings were rugged and that there were stalls clustered so tightly together that she could scarcely distinguish one merchants goods from another. Over the lanes that passed between buildings there stretched fabric awnings that, though once purple she would guess, had been bleached a pale blue by the sun. The day was gray then and the awnings were gathering weighty snow. Soon, Hawke would guess, the foothills she preferred to travel through would be impassable. They would have to stay in Vol Dorma for a few days, she would guess. At least until the snowfall abated. “Do you see any good stalls?” Hawke said somewhat absently. “Something with luggage or crates or anything?”

Merrill glanced around. “I’m sure if we just spoke to someone they’d sell us their crate or something,” suggested Merrill. “Varric always says that most dwarves would sell their own mother for the right price.”

Hawke chuckled under her breath. “That’s probably true, actually. Damn, sometimes I wish I had just dragged Bodhan along with us. I swear, he’d be able to find the wares we needed in a heartbeat. Alright, let’s poke around.” She ducked to the side of the street and sidled up to the least reputable looking merchant she could see. With any luck, he’d have to flee town before anyone could ask if he’d seen anyone behaving oddly recently.

“What are you in the market for, lass?” he asked, his yellowed teeth flashing as he smiled at her.

“I just need a trunk,” she said casually. “I plan on doing some bargain hunting while in the city and my own luggage is packed to bursting.”

His bright, observant eyes looked her up and down in one quick motion. “I don’t see any luggage on you.”

She shrugged. “It’s back in my room, obviously. Much though I love carrying heavy bags with me all about town, I decided to deny myself that pleasure for the time being. So do you have any luggage you’d be willing to sell or am I wasting my time?”

The merchant grinned broadly. “A woman who knows what she’s after. Be still my beating heart.” He gestured towards his goods as he added, “See that fine leather trunk there? Lovely gold binding, top-quality drakeskin handles, and, for the woman on the go, even two fully-functioning wheels for your travelling ease. Now, I just sold off all the fine silks I had stored in there and, though it would pain me to do so, I’d be willing to part with the trunk for fifty silvers.”

Hawke stared at him blankly. “And I would be willing to pay that because of the extensive brain damage I’ve suffered? Thirty silver pieces and we’ve got a deal.”

“Forty. Look at that quality! You won’t find better than that from any of these charlatans.” He gestured to the other merchants that lined the street. “Forty. You won’t regret it.”

She sighed. “Let me test this fine quality you keep nattering on about; bring the trunk over here.”

Still grinning smarmily, he heaved the trunk over to her. It was a good size, which was really all she demanded of her purchase. And, she was pleased to discover, the wheels did seem to work well. The latch was also good and strong so there would be no concern of Fenris toppling out as Sebastian and Varric moved him into the inn. “Alright. Thirty-five silvers and I take this off your hands.” She held out her hand to him and, after a moments thought, he shook it. “Excellent!” she said warmly, fishing through her small change purse for the coin that she owed.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said after weighing the coin.

“Fenris is not going to enjoy being carted around in this,” whispered Hawke as she and Merrill made their way towards where their cohorts hid.

Merrill nodded. “Well, that’s probably true, but it’s better than getting caught, isn’t it? I’m sure he knows that it’s the best option. And you’re the one who suggested it so I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Hawke grunted as she heaved the trunk over a particularly large stone that lay along the road. “Yes, well, just because he goes along with it doesn’t mean I’m entirely thrilled about cramming him into trunks.”

As it turned out, the fit was rather tight. Still, Fenris crawled into the trunk without protest and pillowed his head on the blanket that Hawke had folded inside the trunk for him. He was forced to pull his knees to his chest and his shoulders, it seemed, would be pressed rather harshly against the sides of the trunk. When he was situated, Hawke looked down at him lying there and frowned. He seemed so small then. Her heart aching, she leaned forward and lightly kissed his cheek. She felt him jerk, startled by the feel of her lips against his skin. But she had needed to offer that small touch of comfort before locking him away. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of there soon,” she whispered. It pained her to the lower the lid of the trunk over him. She sighed, staring at the closed trunk that might as well have been a casket. “Alright,” she said at last, lifting her face to look at the others. “There was a place we passed on the way into the marketplace. It was called The Wicked Thorn… or something…. Anyway, it has a sign with a rose and then on the stem there’s all these little thorns that sort of look like bottles. There was also a vacancy sign so, with any luck, they’ve got two rooms above the tavern. If the place is just too appalling to so much as check-in… well, then I guess Merrill and I will just hide out and watch for you so we can intercept you and make other arrangements. Wait half an hour before following after us. It’s not a lot of time, but with any luck it will be enough to throw the staff off. Okay! Questions? Comments?”

“Yup,” responsed Varric. “How are we going to know which room you and Daisy are shacked up in?”

“Oh, um… I’ll come down at sunset for a drink and one of you can meet me there. We’ll exchange information then.”

Varric gave a quick salute and smiled. “Sounds good. Now you ladies had better hurry off so we can all settle in soon; I could use a stiff drink and warm bath and I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

The Wicked Thorn, as it turned out, was not nearly as revolting as it might have been. True, the floors were covered with the discarded shells of peanuts and, beneath that, Hawke was fairly certain she heard the not-so-subtle sound of chicken bones snapping—but it wasn’t filled the brim with putrid, stinking lushes and so, as far as Hawke was concerned, it was already head and shoulders above The Hanged Man. There were a few men sitting around tables and drowning themselves in ale, but they looked too drunk and unobservant to notice anything amiss. While there was some light, appreciative hooting as Merrill and Hawke entered, there was no indication that things would get out of hand. “Good enough,” Hawke whispered, turning back towards Merrill with a shrug.

“I don’t know, Hawke,” Merrill replied, her nose wrinkling with disgust. “I think I stepped on something.”

“You know, if you wore shoes then that wouldn’t be such a problem,” said Hawke as she made her way towards the man who stood behind the bar. His eyes widened when he saw her and she knew that she must look a fright; weeks without a proper bath and wearing the same robes day in and day out must surely have wrecked havoc on her appearance. She had, on occasion, caught a glimpse of herself in particularly smooth water and knew well that she must indeed look uncivilized. Judging from the appearances of her companions, they had all fallen into quite the state of disrepair. Still, in spite of the growing insecurity that she felt under the man’s stare, she smiled as charmingly she could and inflected her walk with that exaggerated sway she used whenever she needed to disguise the crumbling of her nerves. “Hello there, Ser,” she said sweetly, “you haven’t got any vacant rooms, have you?” As she spoke, her raised the pitch of her voice slightly and inflected her voice with the same Orlesian accent that she had heard from that red-haired laysister back in Lothering.

“Ah, welcome to The Wicked Thorn, I’m Fredrick and you’re… Orlesian, ain’t ya? What brings you so far from home?”

“I only had a craving for some travel,” she smiled impishly. “But the carriage broke down and it’s been three horrendous days of nothing but walking and drudgery.” She tossed her hair, pouting extravagantly. “Planning was never a skill of mine, no? Ah, it’s not so bad as long as you have a room to offer?”

“I have three, in fact,” he told her. “Would you and your maid prefer to be placed in one room or two?”

Hawke looked over her shoulder at Merrill, who shifted uncertainly. The title of maid clearly rankled and Hawke considered arguing it for a moment, but the risk was too great. A lady and her servant may not attract too much attention, but it may well if she pressed the point of elven autonomy too much. She looked at Merrill apologetically as she said, “Oh, I couldn’t do a thing without… Lachme. We’ll take one room.”

This time, she didn’t haggle over the price. Instead, she merely asked that he send a girl to her room as swiftly as he could to bring water for a bath. As she mounted the stairs to the room, Hawke found herself actually growing quite excited for the prospect of a bath. Ultimately, the water that the barmaid brought was rather cold, but it was clear and heated quickly under the power of her magic. “I’ll go after you,” said Hawke, feeling a touch of guilt for having let that man think Merrill was her maid. Before Merrill could make any form of protest, Hawke fell back on one of the room’s two narrow beds and stared absently at the ceiling. It was a decent enough place to spend a few days. The furniture was constructed of pine which, though it bore the grooves and scratches of much use, had been recently polished by a careful hand. Hawke suspected that Fredrick had the help of a female proprietor in addition to himself; he didn’t seem like a diligent enough man to keep this room is such a state. After all, the bar had been… poorly maintained to say the least.

As she heard the continued faint splashing of Merrill’s bathing, Hawke closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into the bed. It was softer than she would have expected. Of course, the mattress could have been stuffed with straw and it still would have been more comfortable than the cold rocky ground upon which she’d become accustomed to sleeping. A pleasant haziness came over her as she allowed the warmth of the indoors and the comfort of the bed to mingle with the intense weariness that had been threatening to consume her for weeks. She might have slept, but there was an odd sense of loneliness that pricked at her consciousness. Though it pained her to admit, she’d become used to the silent figure who trailed at her side. She’d grown used to the sound of his breath as they drifted off to sleep; she’d gotten used to opening her eyes and seeing his body silhouetted against the canvas of the tent; she’d gotten used to his hand being within reach of hers. Whenever the guilt and the sense of failure and disappointment grew to be too much, she had only to reach out to him to remind herself of the one small way she had succeeded. As long as he was beside her and safe, there was the faintest, dazzling hope that he would, one day, be restored. Now, his absence worried her. She was sure that he was safe in the company of Varric and Sebastian, but she knew that she’d be unable to find peace without knowing with absolute certainty that he was out of harm’s way. Lifting her eyelids with an impatient sigh, she directed her eyes towards the window and watched the sky as she waited for evening.

“I’m done,” said Merrill, who was wrapping herself in one of the towels that the maid had brought for them. “Sorry that it took a moment—I’d forgotten how glorious soap can be.” Appreciatively, she lifted her forearm to her nose and took a deep whiff of her skin. “It’s so wonderful not to stink of pond.”

“Oh, it’s fine Merrill,” said Hawke as she lifted herself off the bed and quickly stripped herself of her clothes. “I was just wallowing in a sea of self-loathing and sadness.” She lowered herself into the water, sighing with relief as she did so. Though the tub they were provided with was small, it felt impossibly luxurious to be immersed in the warmth of its waters.

By the time that she was clean, dried, and dressed, the sun was very near to setting. “Want to come downstairs with me and wait for the others?” she asked Merrill, who had been sleeping happily on one of the beds. Merrill opened one of her eyes and nodded a bit grudgingly. “You don’t have to,” chuckled Hawke. “You can keep sleeping if you’d like; it’s only that I didn’t feel like waiting down there all alone.”

“No, no, it’s perfectly alright,” said Merrill as she sat upright. “It looked a bit dodgy down there and it’s probably for the best that you don’t have to sit all on your own where anything could happen.”

“Good,” said Hawke with some relief in her voice. “Just remember that we don’t know Varric or Sebastian and that your name is Lachme and I’m… Maker, I forgot to make up a name. What do you want to name me?”

Merrill paused thoughtfully. “Lyna, do you think?” She smiled nostalgically as she added, “There was a girl in my clan with that name. She was always kind to me.”

“Lyna it is, then,” agreed Hawke as they made their way to the door.

The tavern, they found, was much more crowded than before. The few wastrels that there had been during the late afternoon were now surrounded by a fresh wave of rambunctious patrons. Hawke scanned the crowd with a glance that was meant to appear casual and, seeing a fair-haired dwarf seated at a small table in the corner, she made her way towards him with her head hung low so as to prevent herself from drawing attention. Fortunately, the man who had been behind the bar when Hawke and Merrill had arrived before had been joined by a robust middle-aged woman who seemed to be attracting the majority of his attention. Several other barmaids were also roving the floor now and the presence of two additional females was not by itself worthy of much notice. Though eyes turned towards Merrill and Hawke as they passed, no one seemed to track their movements long. Covertly, they sat in two of the available seats at the table Varric had claimed. “Hello there, I’m Lyna,” lilted Hawke in her Orlesian tones. She leaned forward and added, in a whisper, “And this is the best Orlesian accent I can do so if you make fun of me I will have no choice but to slap you across the face.”

He laughed. “Fair enough, my lady. Would you and your lovely companion care to join a poor, solitary dwarf for a drink?”

Smiling, Hawke replied, “While it would be my pleasure, messere, I fear I cannot stay long.” She added, in tones no one listening in would be able to hear. “Which room is yours?”

“Second door on the left, Lyna,” he uttered quickly. “But you’re not going to leave me all alone here, are you? Surely your friend can stay for a quick pint. I’ll look pathetic if I’m here drinking on my own. And, believe me, I plan to keep drinking.”

Hawke smiled and looked towards Merrill. “Do you mind? I thought I’d be able to stick around but I’m honestly so high-strung right now that one drink might set me off vomiting.”

Merrill nodded, wrinkling her nose at the thought of vomit. “It’s alright, Haw—Lyna.” She smiled apologetically after the near slip up.

“Alright,” said Hawke, rising quickly, “you two crazy kids have fun.”

She wanted to sprint to the top of the stairs and tear into Varric’s room just to see with her own eyes that nothing had gone wrong. But she paced herself, forcing her body to take measured strides over to the bar where she flagged down Fredrick’s attention. He smiled when he saw her and, with female companion on his arm, he sidled over. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little Oslesian. A bath has done wonders for you.”

“Thank you. I believe I have nearly washed the stink of travel of myself. Now, Fredrick, if you don’t mind my asking, is there any way I might be able to find a hot meal in your establishment?”

“We have a few things,” said the woman who was resting her head on his chest now. “Bit of fresh fruit, some meat, and a loaf of bread would get rid of that hunger for you, I’m sure. Would you prefer to sit amongst the rabble or shall I send up a basket to your room?”

Hawke smiled gratefully. “My room, if you wouldn’t mind. And would you mind including a bottle or two of wine? I must calm my nerves after all this travel.”

The woman nodded. “Sure thing, sweetness. I’ll send a girl up in a moment.”

Hawke gave the woman her payment and made her way up the stairs. It was more difficult than she could have ever thought to walk past that second door on the left. She couldn’t go to him now—not while there was still a barmaid in transit to her room—but she could almost sense him behind that door. Forcing herself not to touch the handle, she lightly swept her fingers across the wooden panel of the door as she passed by and hurried towards her room. Sitting on the bed with her feet on the floor, her legs trembled as she fought the impulse to rise up and rush down the hallway to the room where she knew he was. He would be waiting for her, she knew. She smiled to herself, imagining the relief that would pass over his face when he saw her.

Fortunately, the food and wine arrived quickly. It was not of good quality, Hawke saw, but there was plenty of it as well as two bottles of wine. Happily, Hawke accepted the basket, dropped a small amount of coin into the girl’s hand for her trouble and waited long enough to be sure that the way was clear to the other room. As soon as she was sure that the girl was back downstairs once more, Hawke threw open the door and walked briskly down the hallway. She knocked thrice and, the moment Sebastian held it ajar, she forced her way in. She smiled with relief when she saw Fenris sitting, whole and unharmed, on the foot of the bed.

He rose when she entered and returned her smile with one of his own. “You look… clean,” he said inanely. He did not know why such a thing would surprise him, but it was a rapid visual change that he could not fail to notice. It was odd to see such a dramatic shift from the last time he had seen her. Her hair, though it was still damp, was drying already and now fell in loose waves over her shoulders as opposed to the sloppy bun that she’d taken to wearing over the past few weeks. It looked soft and downy; he wondered if she smelled of orange blossoms once more.

“Yes, I bathed,” she chuckled. “There’s still water in our room, if you like to make use of it.” Sebastian coughed disapprovingly and she looked at him. “Oh, lighten up, Sebastian. It’s not as if I’m some lecher who’s going to be sitting there with a pint of ale and a sketchpad.” Fenris blushed. Nonsense, considering the amount of eyes that had seen his skin. But the thought of her eyes on him seemed… different. She’d seen him bare before, he knew, but not alone. It hadn’t been for her last time and it hadn’t been his choice.

“It’s still not appropriate, Hawke,” Sebastian said. “Perhaps you and I could remain here whilst Fenris bathes?”

“Or,” she ventured, “you could go downstairs and stop pretending as if I am some blushing virgin who must be sheltered from the world? I’m sure Merrill and Varric would be glad to have your company. Fenris?” He lifted his eyes when he heard her say his name. “Why don’t you and I go to the other room and get you all fed and washed up?”

The mere mention of food made his stomach growl. He nodded in assent and followed her as she led him away down the hall. The other human, Sebastian, was glowering as they left. It occurred to Fenris for a moment that perhaps Sebastian was jealous. But the idea that Sebastian could be jealous of him simply because he was also male seemed ridiculous to Fenris. Hawke was kind to him—kinder now with a consistency that made her presence comforting—but there was never anything more than simple kindness. Even when she had kissed his face before closing him inside that foul trunk, her lips had been light like a mother’s. For Sebastian to imagine that she, a human and a mage and clearly a woman of power, would show a former-slave partiality out of some form of romantic feeling was madness.

When they entered her room, she hurled a small fireball suddenly onto the hearth and he felt his stomach turn. She used magic so casually sometimes that it alarmed him; it was so easy to forget that she was a mage most of the time. He watched as she rolled back the sleeves of her robe and dipped her arm into the water of the tub. The water seemed to glow as she moved her hand within its waters. “So,” she said as she heated the water, “you weren’t scared at all being in that trunk for so long, were you?”

“No. I knew you’d come for me as you always do.”

Her hand stilled in the water; his words seemed to have wrought a strange effect as they did at times. He wished he knew why. At last, she rose, shaking off her hand, and turned to smile at him in a way that looked rather forced. “Alright. It’s warm now. I’ll keep my back turned, okay?” He nodded his assent.

She sat on the bed with a bottle of wine while he began to undress. He glanced towards where she sat, facing the wall, and saw that the fire on the hearth created a long shadow of his body as he slid his armour from his body. But her eyes did not even watch that vague, distorted version of him; instead, she stared downwards at the bedspread and took deep swills from the bottle she held. She stayed immobile even as he sat in the tub of water, scrubbing at himself with a rag and the sweetly-scented soap that had been provided. He found himself glancing towards her, wondering what she occupied her mind with while they sat in silence. She didn’t think of him, that much he knew. In her sleep from time to time she murmured a man’s name that he had not heard before.

“I’m finished,” he announced once he had dressed in his trousers and tunic once more; he left his breastplate aside.

“And I’m very nearly finished!” she said, raising her bottle of wine into the air. He heard the remaining wine sloshing against the sides of the bottle and guessed that she had finished all but the last sip of it. When she turned to face him, she was smiling brightly with her eyes bleary from the drink. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” She hopped off the bed, stumbling slightly as she did so.

He stood while he watched her spread the plates across the center of the floor and then plop down beside a bowl of fruit. “Come on!” she said, a bit too loudly and bit too enthusiastically.

Obediently, he sat across from her, folding his legs. He followed her lead and helped himself to some bread and meat. The bread was soft and fresh and the lamb was well-seasoned; it was all much better than anything they’d eaten since leaving Minrathous. She ate with relish and he watched her. There was something unsteady about her now that came with having too much drink. Her hands shook as she opened the second bottle and he wondered if it was being alone with him that brought on her nervousness. He couldn’t ask, he knew, but he would like to. There were a great many things he would like to do. He wondered if her flushed cheeks would feel hot beneath his hand. He looked away from her quickly; such foolish thoughts came only from having gone too long without touch. 

There was the soft clunk as she placed something in front of him. He looked at the floor before him and saw that she had taken one of the two wooden goblets that had been among the goods and filled it with wine.

“I am not allowed to drink,” he said without thinking. Immediately he wished he had said nothing. She rolled her eyes and groaned loudly. He hated the frustration she felt with him.

“Oh, damn it, Fenris!” she slurred. “Just drink the wine. You always drink the wine.”

He indulged her and sipped at it without enthusiasm. As he swallowed, it burned his throat. He fought the impulse to let the disgust show on his face. She laughed at his hesitation and, raising her own full goblet, said playfully, “Race you?”

“Race me?”

She rolled her eyes again. “Whoever finishes first wins and whoever wins gets to feel superior.”

She finished before him, but he could tell from her queasy expression that she did not, in fact, feel superior to him.

“You may have had too much,” he said hesitantly.

She just stared at him, studying his face with wide eyes that seemed to drift in and out of focus. The longer she looked into his face, the more sadness seemed to seep into her eyes; it was always that way. Perhaps she was disappointed with him. He averted his gaze. “Perhaps we should rest now,” he murmured. He began to stand, but her hand darted out to grab his forearm and arrest his attention. He looked back at her, startled and she pulled him back to a seated position. Her gold eyes were squinting as she tried to focus them on his face. He was about to ask if she were alright when she said, “Maraas shokra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.” Her accent was truly atrocious. There was nothing to do but to stare at her, watching her dance of changing expressions as he waited for an explanation.

“Do you know it? Do you know what it means?”

He cleared his throat and lifted his goblet back up, clutching at if only to have something to do with his hands. At long last, he answered, “Yes. I know it. ‘There is nothing to struggle against. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless.’” He looked back up at her face, keeping his chin still close to his chest. “Why do you ask?”

She laughed and her heard the manic edge in the sound. “You know it,” she rasped. She shook her head, hair falling across her flushed face. Then, more to herself than to him, she began to mutter in a rapid stream, “Did Danarius leave it there? Did he not think to take that much away? Did he not know? Is it all there? All there—all tucked away in your mind just waiting to come out. When will you remember, I wonder? It’s there; I know it. You’ll remember. I know you will.”

While she twirled her hair around her twitching fingers, he watched her with wide, uncomprehending eyes. She was so distressed now and he was not the least bit certain what to do. “It is… not a memory,” he explained slowly, trying to guess her meaning. “Not from when you mean, I don’t think. I have spent most of my life in close proximity to Seheron. I have never spoken their tongue, but I am acquainted with it. I have listened. I’ve learned.”

Again, that manic laugh that seemed to cause her pain as it burst from her. “So smart. So clever. Can’t even read and yet you know. You listen and you know. More clever than I. You learned to read so quickly. It came so easily to you. It all comes so easily to you.”

He felt an instantaneous jolt at her words and, puzzled, furrowed his brow. With some small measure of awe in his voice, he asked, “Could I… could I read?”

“Yes. Yes you could read. I taught you the best I could when I had the time. Why did I do that? Was it kindness? I wonder.” Her mood seemed less frantic now; she seemed to melt forwards as her body slumped in weary defeat. “Was I being kind?” she went on, shaking her head. “I couldn’t have been kind.”

“You’ve… had too much to drink.”

“Ha! That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve been drunk on Aggregio since I’ve known you.” He said nothing; there was nothing to say. “Why did I drink with you? After I was done healing you, why did I stay? What was there to gain?” Desperately, she searched his face with her wild eyes. “Was I being kind? Was I lonely?”

She waited for his answer but there was none to give. “I… don’t understand,” he managed.

“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand what I am.” She hid her face in her hands.

“You’re a mage,” he volunteered.

She ignored him. “You deserved better than me. You deserved better than all of us. All you gave. All you sacrificed. You deserved better. Than him. Than me.”

He could see tears welling in her eyes now. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He wanted to help. Twice he held up his hand to touch her shoulder and twice it fell back to his lap without making contact. “You have given me more than I ever hoped for. You have given me… freedom. You have given me more than I had any right to expect.”

“That’s not true,” she sobbed, huge drunken sobs shaking her body. His words had only served to upset her more. As always. “Where are you? Why aren’t  you Fenris?” She sniffed loudly. “Where did he go?”

“You need to rest,” he said insistently, finally standing. He walked over to her and fished her off the floor. She did not fight him as he slipped an arm around her and began to guide her towards the bed furthest from he door. She climbed beneath the blankets without being told and he released her, standing upright and watching her with some concern in his eyes. She was still crying, but the sobs were lighter now. He had no wish to repeat the experience of seeing her reduced to a state of alcohol-induced fragility. It was unsettling.

She must have felt the weight of his stare, because she looked up at him sadly. Then, in a voice of slow, accepted defeat, she said, “How were they rewarded? It killed them too, when they showed you how to be free. It killed them all.” She took a deep, rattling breath to steady herself and then, pressing herself deeper into the pillows, pinched her eyes closed in a clear attempt to shut out the world enough to find sleep.

He was so far past wondering about the nonsense of her words; she made little sense without drink and less now than ever. Instead, he allowed himself to think of sleep. The bed was wide enough for both of them. He wondered if he would be allowed to lie beside her; he had not asked for permission but then he knew that she disliked it when he asked if he were allowed to do things. Carefully, he crawled over her and positioned himself between her and the wall. Within moments, he could tell from her deep breathing that she was already asleep. The drink must have accelerated the process. As he always had through the canvas, he curled up close to her. Now, however, without that barrier, it felt strange to do so. He could feel the smoothness of her skin and watch as his own breath made her loose waves of hair tremble. In her sleep, she sighed contentedly as his breath fell across her neck. He pulled back quickly and rolled to face the wall. Shaking even though the room was warm, he tried desperately to force himself into sleep.

 

 


	12. Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence in this chapter. Not so bad, really, but something to be aware of if you’re the squeamish sort.

The water slammed ice-cold against his body as he hurled himself further into the sea, calling for his master. With every stroke he managed forward, a larger wave seemed to throw him back towards the shore of Seheron. He heard his own voice, panicked and echoing hoarsely over the roar of the water. He’d never gone this far out to sea carried by the force of his own body before; they had never taught him how to swim and there had never been a need for him to learn. He could not make his arms and legs move in proper time and he knew he could not go much further. Lifting his head above the waves, gasping for air, he watched as the ship sailed further from him. Through the mist of the crashing water and though the fog that hung heavily across his vision, he thought he saw his master watching. Desperately, he called again and again through the salt water choked him. But there was no response. There was nothing but the water pressing in around him.

Then she was above him, towering over him. In the dream, there was the warmth and familiarity that her presence brought. Still, he knew that he had been afraid of her. Her body loomed, large and pale above his with horns that jutted from her skull like a bull’s. Across that grey, alien flesh was streaked the red paint like the blood of slaughtered beasts; Fenris gasped, floundering like a fish carried to the shore by the tide. He knew her name before she spoke it. Kost. Her arms were warm as she cradled him to her chest, rubbing life into his limbs. Kost, she told him. “ _Are you… my new master?_ ” he’d asked as she clothed him, fed him, brought him to her shelter.

“ _No_ ,” she’d objected. “ _You have no master now_.”

They had not allowed him time for weakness. They had brought him to health and then expected that he be whole. What great difference there was between expectation and demand. He had learned to be a man among them. Their children had sat at his feet, tracing the lines on his skin with curious fingers; they’d laughed happily, warmly. They’d called him by his name and thanked him for his efforts.

“ _Kill them all_.”

Blinking, a strand of sticky blood had transferred from his cheek to his lashes. He felt it across his skin, cooling and cracking already. The humidity of the jungle engulfed him; the smell of their death was thick in the air. Around him, entrails hung like pythons from the trees. Blowflies, always the first to come to blood, hummed in the air. He watched as they walked across the open, staring eyes of the corpses. Eyes wide with shock. Eyes that stared unseeingly at him, glassy, and vacant, and filled with all the horror that his betrayal had brought upon them. They had fought well. They had died well. But he’d had the advantage of speed and surprise. Their blood mingled with his own and filled his gaping mouth with salt as he looked upon them.

Kost. Her large arms which had held him in their warmth were splayed out to her sides now as if she might embrace him once more. Her throat was torn open now, her trachea ripped swiftly from her. The blood had stopped flowing but she was covered with it still. The blood of slaughtered beasts. Large, warm arms cooling as the heat of life left her. Wide eyes looking back at him and seeing what he’d done.  _You have no master now._

“ _Come along Fenris_.” He knew that voice. That voice that always thrummed in his ears. That voice which ordered. That voice which screamed. That voice which purred against his skin. It was the same; it was constant and unchanging. And yet it was changed. It could not be the same. He had no master now.

“Fenris. Fenris, wake up.” His hand shot out, locking around her throat, and Hawke choked beneath his hand. Dragged to consciousness by the sound of her voice, his eyes opened after his hand had reached out to wrap around her neck. When he looked up at her, he saw her above him, gasping under the force of his grasp. She was not in his dream, but beside him. Startled, he drew back his hand, already attempting to stammer apologies as she rubbed at her neck and gathered fresh oxygen in deep, rasping breaths. There were no words for an apology—none that he could find through the haze of his disorientation—but he managed, once or twice to make a clumsy exhalation that was very nearly words.

She waved her hand, lowering it from her throat, and shook her head to discourage his continued attempts to apologize. “I’m fine,” she whispered roughly. “Really, I’m fine. I should have known not to startle you, but you were tossing around and I thought maybe you were having a bad dream. I thought I’d wake you.” Continuing to massage her throat, she added, “Clearly, that was a mistake. Wine is obviously not helping my judgment.”

“I did not know it was you.”

“I know. It’s fine. Really. Are you alright?” She placed one of her hands lightly on his arm.

“I… perhaps.” He was unsure how to pose his question and less sure that she would know the answer even if he did. Still, his brow furrowed and his tone hushed, he asked, “Do you know… was I ever left alone on Seheron? With the… Fog Warriors?”

Hawke felt her body freeze, her breath caught in her chest and every muscle of her body turned to stone. It cost her a great deal of effort to say, “Yes.”

He looked at her in the warm, dim light of the room and she saw the gravity of his expression. There was something familiar in his gaze that was at once horrifying and thrilling. She drew back her hand from his arm and tried to keep her eyes full of an equanimity that she did not feel. “I killed them,” he said, his voice even and low.

“Yes.”

He looked away from her, turning his eyes towards the gentle fire that still played on the hearth. Though she stared at his profile, trying to read his expression, she saw nothing there. There was a hardness that had not been there during the passing weeks and a distance that shook her to the core. “I remember now,” he murmured.

Her body was frozen so helplessly even as her heart drummed violently in her chest with such thunderous volume that she was sure that he must be able to hear it. “How much do you remember?” she breathed, her eyes fixed on his face no matter how she tried to pull them away.

He shook his head, a trace of disappointment crossing his eyes. “No more than what occurred with the Fog Warriors." When he turned his head back to face her, she felt her heart shudder as if it had missed a beat. He was so close to her now; she wished she had the power to move or to run or to do anything except stare helplessly into his eyes. “But that was not when you knew me. You said I was in the Free Marches,” he confirmed, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“That’s right,” she murmured, forcibly calming herself. He didn’t remember her. She had to keep steady and act as if she were less afraid than she felt. “We met years afterwards, but you told me about what happened on Seheron. You told me how much you respected them and how what happened then changed you. They taught you how to be free, I think, and gave you the strength you needed to flee from Danarius when he came back for you.” Her hand slightly shaking, she brushed her hair away from her face. “He kept coming after you, which is why you and I met in the first place.”

“Why would you help me?” There was wonder in this tone, but something almost of the doubt and mistrust in his eyes that reminded her of the night when she had first met him. The night when she had demanded money in exchange for her services. Would he remember that given enough time?

“It was the right thing to do,” she whispered, lowering her eyes. She wanted that to have been the reason. She wanted to be the sort of person who knew right from wrong and acted upon that knowledge without ulterior motives. She wanted him to look at her again as if she were that person.

“You would think that I would remember a woman such as yourself,” he said, staring at her bowed head. She had moved closer to him in order to rouse him from his sleep and had not increased the distance between them since. It occurred to him, as he became aware of the places where her body touched his own, that she was rather beautiful. “I am sorry that I cannot recall the kindness you have shown me,” he whispered, watching the way the dancing flames of the fire cast ever-changing shadows across her face.

“You have nothing to apologize for. You’ll remember someday and then… well, we’ll see what happens then.”

“Yes.” He did not look away from her and it wasn’t long before she lifted her face to meet his gaze. Faintly, she smiled. That sadness—that aching, lingering sadness—had entered her eyes once more. He wondered what had passed between them to bring such emotion into her eyes.

But she chuckled under her breath, still smiling as she moved farther away from him towards the edge of the bed. “I’m glad,” she said, “that you’re getting it back. It won’t be long before you’re your old self again.” She adjusted the blankets, pulling them up towards her chin as she settled back against the pillows. “Now, I’m sorry to do this, but I’m still half-drunk and I absolutely must rest my eyes. You don’t mind, do you?”

He lay on his side, resting his head on his own pillow while still facing towards her. “No. Of course not.” He watched as her eyes fell shut and her breath slowed, but he saw that sleep was hard for her to come by. Closing his own eyes, he found that it came to him no more easily. Still, they lay in quiet stillness until the dawn came.

Sometime before morning, they both had drifted off somehow without being aware of doing so. Hawke was only aware that she had been sleeping when she heard Varric’s jovial voice saying, “Come on, you lazy sacks! It’s time to wake up and stuff ourselves with all the somewhat stale scones that this flea-ridden establishment has to offer.” Hawke opened her eyes grudgingly and stared up at him as he stood above her. She’d guess from his upbeat attitude that he hadn’t been nearly so negatively impacted by the previous night’s alcohol consumption as she had been. “Come on, Hawke! We’ve got food enough for the Antivan army back in our room. You’re not going to let Sebastian and I feast alone, are you?”

She grumbled, pulling the blankets over her head and wishing violently that she were still sleeping. “You and Sebastian can hurl yourselves off a bridge, for all I care,” she growled.

Varric laughed and Hawke heard Merrill say, her voice altogether too chipper and high-pitched for a hungover person to bear, “I’ll join you, Varric. I’m absolutely ravenous. I feel as if I could eat an entire halla all on my own.” Then, she added, “Which I wouldn’t, of course, because that would be terrible. Goodness knows how my clan would react if I started eating halla on top of… everything else.”

“Okay, Daisy—we’ll take halla off the menu. Nothing but slightly bruised fruit, slightly stale bread, and some highly suspect sausages that are, with all likelihood, made of cat.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely! Except for the cat part, of course.” Hawke heard Merrill crawling from her bed and wondered when exactly she had returned to the room the night before. With any luck, she had slept through Fenris’ revelation. That was most definitely something that Hawke had no interest in remembering herself let alone discussing with anyone else. Still, she could feel Fenris beside her and knew that, all too soon, she was going to have to deal with what had happened.

Sighing heavily, she emerged from the blankets and looked at Varric. “Alright,” she said, “why don’t you all have breakfast and I’ll head off to the marketplace and gather the supplies we need most urgently? We might have to leave soon and, if I have to go another day wearing this hideous teal robe, then there’s a very real chance that I will lose my tiny little mind. Fenris,” she added, turning her head to where he lay, “why don’t you eat with the others? You must be starving and, to be honest, we can’t exactly have you wandering the streets with me.”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

Fenris followed the others to Sebastian and Varric’s room and found, much to his relief, that there was indeed a great deal of food there. All four of them gathered around the spread and began to help themselves to the food with great gusto. Fenris noticed that, as he ate, Sebastian was eyeing him strangely from time to time. No doubt he wondered what had passed between Hawke and Fenris the night before. Almost smiling to himself, Fenris thought that he would like very much to tell him.

“This might sound silly,” said Merrill suddenly, “but does Hawke seem quite alright to everyone? Perhaps it’s only my imagination, but she seemed a bit…off… this morning.”

Varric let out a bark of laughter. “Oh Daisy, don’t you know a hangover when you see one? Not everyone has my terrific dwarven constitution. Hawke’s just a little worse for wear and doesn’t want us to see her clutching her head and vomiting into chamber pots all morning.”

“Oh,” said Merrill, her lower lip jutting out slightly as she considered Varric’s theory. “I thought it might be that she was getting a touch nervous about returning to Kirkwall and seeing Anders again.”

“Anders?” Fenris heard himself ask. He’d heard the name before, heard it muttered a dozen times as the silence of night fell over their campground. Fenris felt everyone’s eyes going to him suddenly; it then occurred to him that he had never spoken much in front of the others and that perhaps the sound of his voice was enough to startle them. He shifted awkwardly, glad when Varric’s loud laugh disrupted the silence.

“Oh, that’s right! You don’t remember Blondie, do you? Well, that should be interesting.” Confused, Fenris stared at Varric, waiting for the dwarf to elaborate. “Anders is a mage back in Kirkwall,” Varric added obligingly. “You and he… well, you never got along particularly well. Frankly, I think the only reason that you two didn’t kill each other was because it would have pissed off Hawke.”

“And… Hawke will not be pleased to see him again?” Fenris asked slowly, trying to piece together the information that was being offered in fragments.

It was Merrill who spoke next. “They were lovers,” she said wistfully. “It’s all quite sweet how they came together. Two apostates in love.”

“Always the romantic, Daisy,” chuckled Varric, shaking his head. Turning his attention back to Fenris, he added, “They’ve got a bit of an awkward reunion ahead of them. The night before we left for the Imperium, our fearless leader ended things with ol’ Blondie-bear. They had quite the row, as I understand it. She insisted on going to Tevinter and he wasn’t overly pleased with that course of action.” Varric shrugged. “As I said, you two were never very fond of one another.” Varric bit off a large hunk of sausage and chewed enthusiastically.

“He would rather I remained with Danarius?” Fenris said, his eyes narrowing with indignation.

“You mustn’t hold it too much against him, Fenris,” Sebastian interjected gently. “He is not entirely in control of himself.”

“You know,” said Merrill tartly, “just because he is joined with a Spirit does not mean that he is no longer in control of himself.”

Fenris stared at her, taken aback. “He is… an abomination?”

Varric cracked a smile. “I think you asked him that before, elf. He wasn’t too pleased with the question, as I recall. Anders is joined with a Spirit of Justice, not a demon. There’s a distinction there, I’m sure, but it’s not always clear to everyone.”

“I don’t think there’s a difference,” said Merrill, a bit bitterly.

Varric sighed and shook his head. “As I said….”

A long silence fell over them that was filled only with the slight sounds of chewing. Fenris looked at the slice of bread he held in his hand as he said, “Hawke… loved this mage?”

The question seemed to pull even Varric up short. After some hesistation, he replied, “Well, if that isn’t the big, unanswerable question. If ever there were a woman who played her cards close to the chest, then it would have to be Hawke.”

“Oh, she loved him, I think,” Merril added, looking thoughtfully at Varric.

He smiled and nodded. “Sure,” he agreed. “In her own Hawke-ish way.”

“I see,” muttered Fenris, lifting a tiny piece of bread to his mouth and chewing it slowly. The conversation moved onwards and left him behind after that. He continued to stare at the floor, breaking off small bits of bread and eating them without being fully aware that he did so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Yay! Fenris is finally getting his memories back again!  
> B) Sorry if the dream/memory sequence is a little difficult to follow. I didn’t want to spend an entire chapter recounting the months spent with the Fog Warriors. You know how dreams are sort of disjointed and don’t clearly fit together and yet, when you are the person dreaming it, then it all makes perfect sense? You can gather feelings and contexts that aren’t even in the dream? That’s sort of what’s going on; Fenris is getting a lot more out of the dream than is expressed here because it is recounting his own memories.


	13. Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has made it this far. I know this is roughly the length of a novella and for that I apologize. If brevity is the soul of wit, then I am clearly a very great fool.
> 
> Still, it's been a fun week. For me, at least.

It seemed unfair. Infinitely unfair. During all those years after receiving his lyrium markings, Fenris hadn’t been able to recover so much as one of his lost memories. And now, in her company for no more than a month, his mind was suddenly unlocking. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. His previous incidence of memory loss had been the result of a shocking physical trauma and, she would guess, a fair amount of repression. This time, the loss was the result of Danarius’ magic suppressing the retrieval of memories from a certain time period. Blood magic, for all its power, was still more or less connected to the original caster. The spell blocking Fenris’ memory was no doubt weakening since Danarius’ death. A stagnant spell versus Fenris’ living, changing body… well, it was no wonder that the magic wasn’t holding. Given the right stimuli, there was no telling what he would be able to remember. Still, it seemed unfair. She’d been sure she had more time.

One thing was certain now: he would remember her. She hoped against hope that she would at least get the chance to return him to Kirkwall and his old life before his memories washed away all the trust he had in her now. That thought made her ache somewhere in her chest. She felt heavy as she walked down the streets of Vol Dorma and imagined the day when Fenris would never look at her again. That vulnerability that sometimes lurked in the green depths of his large, elven eyes when he asked her for aid would be gone forever. She would never see his face or hear that little, quavering laugh that seemed to take even him by surprise. She remembered making him laugh when they’d first met; such a funny, sweet sound. Of course, that had been before he’d found out she was a mage and begun slandering everything she was. Hawke wondered if she would be able to make him laugh again before he remembered all she had done to him.

There was a part of her—an insane, mad part of her mind that was utterly and irrevocably separated from reality—that wondered if, maybe, she could earn his forgiveness. She knew that that was impossible. If someone had betrayed her in that way, then she would strip them of their flesh, suck the marrow from their bones, and stick their head on a pike in front of her Hightown mansion. In all likelihood, that’s what Fenris would do to her when he remembered that it was she who had sent him off to Danarius. Even as he killed her, she was sure she wouldn’t blame him. She herself had killed so many people for so much less. But still there was that insane little voice that asked her what she would do if he forgave her. Even then, even if he let her live, it wouldn’t be the same. He would never smile at her again or laugh at her horrible, awkward jokes. He would never look at her as he had last night—as if she were some wondrous creature and he could not begin to comprehend the extent of her goodness.

Hawke shook away these thoughts, reminding herself that she had wanted this. For all these weeks, she had lamented the loss of the true Fenris. She had mourned for him as though he were dead. Now, there was every chance that he would one day become the Fenris she had sent off to Danarius. There was, she knew, no going back and undoing what she had done. What she had done was unforgivable and the wounds left by her sin would, undoubtedly, remain with Fenris forever. But, if she could get him home and leave him with his memory intact, then she would have done all she could. Now, she would have to focus on that goal rather than continuing her descent into self-pity. So what if he would never forgive her? She didn’t deserve forgiveness.

Still, she allowed herself to feel uneasy at least. Without knowing how much time she had before he remembered, she’d have to rush back to Kirkwall. With this in mind, she’d made her shopping expedition brief. Even with five people, there was a limit to how much they would be able to cart and still travel at a brisk pace. Still, there were certain items that they could no longer do without. She had, for example, purchased some spices and salt. Though Merrill had certainly made every effort to prepare flavorful dishes for them, there was only so much to be done with the few plants that continued to grow into Winter. On her way back towards The Wicked Thorn, Hawke also toted several animal skins which could be used for blankets during those frigid nights. She was tired of quivering desperately against Merrill’s tiny body as they tried to rest for a few hours. In addition to that, Hawke had shelled out a considerable amount of money for five fur-lined cloaks. She had actually enjoyed spending time at that stall and perusing the wares. Though she would never have admitted to it, Hawke had always liked fine clothing. It was silly and frivolous and, though she seldom bought clothes, the few that she purchased were always of excellent quality. She’d decided to clothe Sebastian in blue in order to accent his remarkable eyes; Merrill would look lovely in green, she decided; red seemed to suit Varric; for herself, she decided on a dark purple that would hide the filth of travel well enough. Quite unconsciously, she had spent the most time and thought on what Fenris would wrap over his shoulders while they travelled. Running careful, inquiring hands over the merchant’s wares, she’d pictured him in her mind dressed in a hundred colors. Nothing, however, seemed right to her except for black. Those cloaks, lined with fur, were almost impossibly heavy as Hawke made her way through the sludge that covered the streets of Vol Dorma. Weighed down with those goods, as well as the two robes that she had bought for herself and Merrill, she felt very similar to a carthorse.

Hawke was not far from the inn when, quite by chance, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. If it had only borne her likeness, then there was a very good chance that she might never have noticed it at all. It was the image of Fenris which drew her attention. Startled, she turned her gaze towards the yellowing poster which was pasted to the side of a building along with several other papers and announcements. As casually as she could, she hauled herself and her goods towards the sign. Across the top, in large letters, was the word “Wanted”. Below, she saw her name written above the portrait that had been drawn of her. Mercifully, it wasn’t very good. Really, the picture might have been of any female with longer than average hair and larger than average eyes. The drawing of Fenris posed a bit more of a problem. His likeness had been captured so perfectly that anyone would be able to identify him at a glance. Granted, it was not hard to capture him in a portrait; with those lyrium brands, he certainly wasn’t inconspicuous. Under Fenris’ picture, there was a note that he alone was worth seventy-five sovereigns. With her—dead or alive—someone could stand to make one-hundred sovereigns. That was a hell of a bounty. If she and Fenris hadn’t been the ones being hunted, then there was every chance that Hawke herself would have attempted to gather such a prize.

There was also mention made of Varric, Merrill, and Sebastian as well, but there were only vague descriptions made of them rather than portraits. Hawke glanced to the bottom of the poster. If the Tevinter fugitive and his mage were captured, they were to be delivered to some group called the Ivory Blades. Hawke had never heard of such a group, but she assumed that they were of greater prominence here than in Ferelden or the Free Marches.

For a long moment, Hawke stared at the poster with her face motionless. “Well, that’s not good,” she whispered at last. Then, glancing around to make sure she was unobserved, she quickly tore the poster from the wall and rushed as quickly as she could towards the inn.

Immediately, she went to the room she shared with Fenris and Merrill. She dropped the supplies she had purchased onto the floor and, finding that neither Fenris nor Merrill was there, made her way hurriedly towards the other room to bring them news of the unfortunate poster. When she knocked on the door, it was Merrill who answered. “Oh, Hawke!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “You weren’t gone very long were you? Did you find anything interesting?”

“Well, yes. I did actually,” said Hawke as she entered the room. Then, abruptly, she stopped and looked around the room with wide eyes. “Excuse me for asking, but would any of you mind telling me where the fuck Fenris is?”

“No need for the alarm, Hawke,” Varric told her. “After we made sure your elf had a well-balanced breakfast, he said he wanted to go outside for a moment.”

She stared at Varric, her mouth agape with utter disbelief. “And you just _let_ him go!” she shouted, barely able to keep her voice below a roar.

“No, we didn’t just _let_ him go,” replied Varric, clearly a little taken aback by the severity of her reaction. “I told him to wait until you got back or at least take one of us with him, but he wanted to be by himself and far be it from me to deny a man one speck of alone time. Don’t worry, Hawke; I told him to take the back exit and to make sure that no one saw him. Don’t forget that the elf is far from helpless, Hawke. Besides, he’s not going to go running off on his own; he can barely take a shit in the woods without you holding his hand.”

“We don’t know what he’ll do!” she screamed, gesturing violently with her hands as she spoke. “He started getting his _memories_ back last night, Varric! Do you have any idea what that means? He could remember _anything_. Who knows what he’ll remember or what he’ll do!”

Varric’s eyes widened. “Hawke, I’m sure he didn’t remember anything like that. He’s probably right out back. He left a moment before you got back. Don’t worry yourself too much.”

Hawke was visibly shaking, taking deep, trembling breaths as she tried to calm herself. “Look, from now on, he is never alone. Not to sleep, not to bathe, not for one solitary second. From now on, one of us is with him for every moment of every day. Am I clear?” Her voice was low, the calm in it more unsettling than her shouts had been. “Am I clear?” she repeated when there was no response to her words.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Hawke,” ventured Merrill tentatively.

“He’d better be,” Hawke said, turning her heel on them and slamming the door behind her.

In order to avoid attracting attention, she was forced to take slow, measured strides as she made her way down the stairs and down the short length of hallway that led to the alleyway behind the inn. She saw, as she made her way towards the door, that someone had propped it open slightly to allow for reentry. Her heart, though still shuddering with panic, allowed her some relief. Still, she did not feel the full, wonderful flood of relief until she opened the door and saw him with her own eyes. She let out a manic little burst of laughter as she joined him in the alley.

He was seated cross-legged atop a large, wooden crate with his back against the wall and his head tilted upwards towards the sky. Though he was shivering from the cold, he looked quite calm. When he heard her laugh, he lowered his head and turned to her, raising his eyebrows slightly with surprise.

“There you are,” she sighed, her relief forcing her to smile in spite of the rather acute irritation she now felt with him.

He nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Here I am.”

She pursed her lips slightly and said, “You really shouldn’t wander off on your own.”

“I haven’t wandered,” he replied mildly. “I’ve scarcely left the building, as you see.”

“Fine,” she grumbled, leaning her back against the wall beside him. “Would you rather I left you alone now?”

He shook his head slightly from side to side before looking back towards the sky. Though it was cold that day, the sky was cloudness and the sun was bright. Fenris’ face was bathed in the yellow light of midday as he sighed deeply. She watched him, allowing a silence to lapse between them as her heart rate returned to normal. When his voice shattered the silence, she jerked with surprise. “You gave up much to come after me,” he said without looking at her.

“Not really. What’s a few months in the grand scheme of things?”

“I heard about the mage.”

“Which one?” she replied calmly, furrowing her brow.

“Anders.” He spoke the name as if it were jagged metal tearing at the roof of his mouth as he uttered it.

“Ah, Anders. What did you hear?” she said, trying desperately to sound blasé. “Nothing too alarming, I hope.” She smiled, crossing her arms over her chest to hide the shaking of her hands.

“I heard that you were… _lovers_ , was the word.” The way he said ‘lovers’ caused her stomach to clench oddly. Though his inflection suggested that it was something terribly distasteful to him, his voice was smooth as he formed the word. “You left him in order to retrieve me from Danarius.”

“I see,” she said tartly. “Well, remind me to kill Varric later. They shouldn’t have bothered you with things like that.” She shook her head. “It was really nothing to give up. He… well, he didn’t understand why it was so important to come after you.” He glanced down at her and found she was watching him. He was oddly aware of the warmth of her gaze as she met his eye. “And if he couldn’t understand that, then there was no way that I should have been with him. I don’t want to be in that kind of relationship.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “What were we to one another?”

“You and Anders?”

“You and me.”

“Oh. Right.” She pulled her arms tighter over her chest. “We were… something. As I’ve said, we could never learn to be friends, but we at least learned to depend on each other.” She looked away, unable to take his gaze any longer. Those large, searching eyes that were filled with the longing to understand her. She was almost concerned that he would see into her very soul. The thought that he might one day see her was terrifying. “The awful thing,” she said, “is that I only realized how much I had come to depend on you once you were gone. I couldn’t stand it. I had to go after you. And if that meant leaving Anders, then that’s how it had to be.”

“When we return to Kirkwall, what will be my place?” he asked slowly, watching her profile carefully.

She paused, unsure of how to respond. “I… I’m not sure. I know that’s not what you want to hear and I wish I had something more concrete to offer. I wish that I could tell you what to do, but all I know is what you did in the past. Before you were taken, you spent your days in your mansion. What you did there, I can’t tell you. If you want to go back there, you can. It is a little filthy, to be honest, but I can help you fix it up. If you’d like. It’s not very far from my place, so I can check up on you… if you’d like. And you have friends. Aveline. Donnic. Varric. Sebastian, if he’s not too busy with the Maker. We’ll all be there for you. We’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he spat.

Her eyes widened. “I… it’s not pity, Fenris.”

“I just wish to go back to how I lived before. I do not need you cleaning up after me and looking after me as if I were an infant.”

“That’s not what I’m proposing. I just… I didn’t know how you would adjust to being alone.”

“I can assure you that being alone will be far preferable to being in Danarius’ company. I may have been a slave, but that does not mean I am incapable of caring for myself.”

“I wasn’t implying that.” She shifted and let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. “I don’t know what’s wrong. What did I do wrong?”

“I won’t keep you from your life. I have no wish to be a burden.”

“You won’t be a burden!” She exhaled heavily in frustration. “Fine, if you want me to just plop you back into your old life, then that’s perfectly fine. You’ll just go back to sulking around by yourself, cursing everyone else for your problems, and never letting go of the past. That sounds perfect. Don’t let me help you start a new life. Just go on being bitter and lonely; that sounds just wonderful.” She looked away from him, scowling into the distance.

“And you can go back to your abomination,” he said snidely.

She lifted a brow and looked back to him. “Andraste’s ass, why would you bring that up? You don’t even remember Anders and you _still_ loathe him? How is that even possible!”

“I know as much about him as I care to.”

She lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. You know what, this is a good thing. Clearly, you’re well on your way to returning to your old self. Broody, temperamental, and ready to chop off Anders’ head with a broadsword. What a glorious future it will be.” She huffed angrily and shot a bitter scowl his way. To her surprise, there was the slightest hint of a smile across his face. “What are you smiling about?” she asked indignantly.

“I prefer it like this. No pity or talk of caring for me.”

“You’d rather I were angry with you?” She shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. It explains a great deal of your perversity.”

He cocked his head to the side, his smile almost wry now. “Am I… perverse?”

Hawke, much to her chagrin, felt her cheeks flush with color. His voice was deep as it rumbled through his chest. His dark brows arched over his inquisitive eyes as his lips turned in a way that was so familiar and yet so unlike any expression she had drawn from him before. How strange it was to see him smile at her in that way after all that had passed between them. “You can be. On occasion.”

“I see.” He turned his head, leaning it back against the wall once more and staring forward. “I have a great deal to learn about myself, it seems.”

“I could teach you a few things. If you’d like.”

“Oh?” That low voice, those raised brows and the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he surveyed her expression.

“Nothing like that,” she smiled, brushing her hair behind her ear and trying to keep from blushing overmuch. “I thought I could… teach you to read again. I think it would be nice for you to learn before we get back to Kirkwall. You kept a personal journal there; perhaps you’d like to read it when we get home.”

“Hm,” he said, frowning thoughtfully. “An intriguing notion; to read my own words…. That is something I never would have thought possible.”

“It shouldn’t take long. You learned readily enough last time.”

“When will we begin?”

“Well, we’ll make sure to buy some books while we’re in town and then we can start once we move on. It’ll give us something to do around the camp fire.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I… would be grateful.”

She smiled. “So can we go back inside now? I want to see how you look in the cloak I bought for you.”

Looking more than a little reticent, he crawled down from the crate and followed her indoors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Regarding the explanation of Fenris’ memory recovery: Freshman psych rears its ugly head.
> 
> B) Regarding Hawke and Fenris’ quarrel: I think the reason Fenris is in such a mood is that this is the first time he’s really thought about the fact that Hawke has a life back in Kirkwall. Thus far, he’s only been thinking about his past and what he can’t remember about his own life. Now, he has to deal with what he can’t remember about her past. She has an entire life that has nothing to do with him while he has nothing beyond her. There’s this anxiety that she’ll get home and disappear off with this phantom boyfriend that Fenris knows very little about. As for Hawke, she is way too oblivious to understand what he’s really asking her. She basically has the emotional intelligence of a 5th grader; she’s spent so much of her life being guarded and survivalist that this whole “empathy” thing is still a work in progress. As his feelings and thoughts get more complex, she obviously is going to have more of a challenge interacting with him.
> 
> C) Regarding Fenris going outside: In defense of Varric, Sebastian, and Merrill, they haven’t really been babysitting Fenris through this period. Even after all that’s happened, I think they still remember how lethal he can be. Hawke has forgotten that a little bit and thinks of him as being more vulnerable than he is; she’s expanded his emotional vulnerability to include the physical as well. She also has the knowledge that they are indeed being hunted. No one else has that information yet and therefore it seems like less of a big deal to them that Fenris sneaks out back for, like, a second.


	14. Dirty Spells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang is uncomfortably close to civilization.

It was agreed amongst them, once Hawke had passed the Wanted poster around, that neither Hawke nor Fenris should leave their room for the remainder of their stay in Vol Dorma. Though the portrait of Hawke on the poster wasn’t overly recognizable, it was still too much of a risk having her wander around where anyone might catch sight of her. She agreed to the proposition readily, stating that this was just further confirmation that they should get out of the city and into the wilderness as quickly as possible. “There’s still shopping to do, though,” she added, sitting on the corner of Sebastian’s bed while looking at the others as they examined the poster. “Sebastian and Varric? How about you head out and get the remainder of the supplies? We can leave in the morning.”

“Sure thing, Hawke,” Varric nodded. “What sort of things do you need us strapping men to tote around for you?”

She smiled crookedly. “Well, aside from basics, like food and an unreasonable quantity of alcohol, we could probably use some weapons. A sword for Fenris, at least. You two probably know more about that than I do. And take Merrill with you so she can help you pick out some good, solid conductors.” Hawke turned to Merrill as she added, “Don’t get staffs or anything too flashy—we just need something to amplify our magic in case we get into trouble.”

Merrill nodded. “Of course. Now, have you got any particular preference? Do you prefer necklaces or rings? Maybe a lovely crystal?”

“Anything will be fine,” Hawke assured her. “Oh, and Merrill? I know that you have the same hatred of shoes that seems so prevalent among your people, but we are about to traverse some fairly snowy terrain and it really wouldn’t be the worst thing if you could pick up some boots for yourself and Fenris. I can almost guarantee that losing a toe to frostbite will be more uncomfortable than swathing your feet in a heavy boot.”

“It has been a bit chilly, hasn’t it? Now, I’m afraid that I haven’t much practice with the sizing of shoes. I haven’t even the faintest notion what size I ought to be wearing, but then I will have my own foot as a reference, won’t I? But, um, what size shall I get for Fenris?” As she mentioned his feet, all eyes in the room turned downwards to examine them. Fenris shifted uncomfortably.

“This really isn’t necessary,” said Fenris flatly, wishing rather violently that the others would stop staring so intently at his feet. He turned to Hawke and added, “I’ve walked through a little snow before, Hawke, and somehow managed to remain in one piece.”

“I’d be willing to wager that you haven’t spent day in and day out forging your way across miles of snowy wilderness,” she replied firmly. “I did not go all the way to Tevinter only to have you leave your toes scattered throughout Nevarra. Now someone bring me an inked quill and a piece of parchment so I can make a tracing of Fenris’ foot.” She held out her hand expectantly until Sebastian delivered the goods she had asked for.

Hawke knelt down before Fenris, bidding him to put his foot on top of the paper. Obligingly, he lifted his foot as she slipped the parchment beneath it. She turned her face up towards him, smiling before she looked back down and began to run the quill in a slow, deliberate line around the perimeter of his foot. He watched as she did so, knelt as she was before him and bracing herself with one hand on his shin while she drew with the other. His toes twitched involuntarily as the tip of the quill brushed against his bare skin. She laughed under her breath and he felt the sudden urge to reach down and wind his fingers through her hair. Mercifully, he fought the impulse and she soon asked him to lift his foot once more. He did so and she stood, blowing on the ink to expedite its drying. “There you are,” she said, handing the parchment to Merrill. “This should give you some idea of what will fit.” Then, to Varric and Sebastian, she added, “And make sure you remember to buy clothes for yourselves as well. I wasn’t sure what sort of things you men like to wear and I thought it best to leave those sort of intimate details to you.”

Varric smirked. “Excellent thinking, Hawke.”

She blushed slightly, brushing her hair behind her ear before saying quietly, “Oh, and… don’t forget to pick up some smallclothes for Fenris, if you don’t mind.” Now, Fenris found himself staring at his feet, unable to look up at her. He heard Varric chuckle and offer his assent.

“Right, okay,” said Hawke, clapping her hands together once as though she were snapping a book shut. “Fenris and I will just be sitting stupidly in our room while you three go off and have adventures without us. Fenris, shall we?” He looked up at her; she was smiling at him, still blushing slightly across her cheeks. Her hand was extended towards him, as if he were expected to take it. He remembered all those days spent trailing after her, clutching at her. It seemed oddly humiliating now to be led about like a child. Still, he took her hand, wrapping his fingers across its soft warmth. Though it was she who had reached for him, something like embarrassment crossed her expression once he actually held her hand in his. She cleared her throat, looking away from him and towards the others. “And Varric?” she added, her voice a little rough. “Would you mind choosing some books as well? If you choose anything too tawdry, then I will poke your eyes out with a rusty nail. Just… something simple and, let’s say, appropriate for audiences of all ages.”

He huffed indignantly. “Aw, where’s the fun in that, Hawke? Without a heavy dose of sexual tension, how is a story supposed to titillate and amuse?”

She narrowed her eyes. “There will be no titillation. There will be no sexual tension. There will only be a series of words put together into a logical order and conveying tame, inoffensive information.”

“Fine, fine,” grumbled Varric. “Now don’t you and the elf have somewhere to go… or were you just planning on standing there holding hands all day like a couple of love-struck adolescents?” Abruptly, Fenris and Hawke dropped their hands to their sides. This seemed to amuse Varric, bringing a barely suppressed grin to his lips.

“No. Sexual. Tension,” Hawke repeated warningly to Varric as she and Fenris left the room.

Back in their own bedchamber, Fenris and Hawke sat on the floor in front of the fire. The clothing she had bought earlier was still spread in heaps across one of the beds. Earlier, when they had just come indoors, she had insisted on dressing him in the black cloak she’d purchased. He had felt foolish as she had wrapped it around his shoulders. Though he had spent most of his life being dressed by others, he’d never had someone drape cloth over him while smiling so sweetly. Clothes had never been about his warmth or his comfort; this was a new sensation. “There,” she’d murmured, looking him up and down. “You look nice and snug. No more shivering.” When she’d looked up, meeting his gaze, he had indeed felt flushed with warmth.

Now, as they sat before the fire and the cloak lay almost forgotten on the bed, he still felt unsteady. She had a way of invoking that feeling in him. There was so much that was uncertain about her; so much that he wished he could remember.

She looked over at him and found that he was watching her. “What is it?” she asked, chuckling a bit uncomfortably. “You’re not nervous about the poster, are you? We knew all along that this was a very real possibility.”

“I’m not concerned over some trifling poster,” he replied, shaking his head and looking towards the softly crackling fire. “If they’d like to reclaim me, then they’re welcome to try.”

There was a lethal thread of hatred woven in his voice then that brought a smile to her lips. It was such a familiar tone to hear in his voice. Something that had been in his words a hundred-thousand times when he’d addressed her. All those months of docility had left her craving his bitterness. That resolute strength brought on by anger that had given him the ability to spend years on his own, constantly fleeing the slavers that pursued him. Why had it never occurred to her to marvel at that strength before? “Who do you think put out the bounty?” she asked, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “Danarius is dead and it seems like an awfully large bounty for some uninvolved outsider to place on your head.”

Fenris shrugged slightly, his jaw hardening as he clenched his teeth. “It’s likely his apprentice. The fair-haired one who replaced Hadriana.” Hawke remembered, in a flash, Fenris’ screams of pain as Flavius’ needles had been driven through his flesh. She felt herself cringing at the memory. “He was always a foul, grasping piece of excrement bent on making my life miserable. His obsession with Danarius was plain enough; no doubt he misses his beloved mentor and wishes revenge.”

“Were they… involved?”

“No. Danarius never took anything that was offered willingly,” he spat bitterly.

“No. I suppose he didn’t,” she muttered, bowing her head and hugging her legs more tightly. With a sidelong glance towards Fenris, she added, “Have I ever thanked you? For killing him, I mean.”

“The pleasure, I can assure you, was entirely mine,” he replied, looking over at her with a smirk that was almost devilish. She found herself smiling back at him.

“I mean it. Thank you,” she reiterated, her voice grave and her eyes soft.

“You are welcome,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement.

They fell silent after that, both turning their heads back towards the fire and allowing its crackling to be the only sound that filled the air. It was a peaceful silence in which there was nothing that needed to be said though there was much to say. When Merrill returned to the room, bearing food and sundry goods, the air filled once more with conversation. Fenris was largely not a part of the discourse, but Hawke was never unaware of him. Without paying conscious attention to his movements or actions, she knew nonetheless that he was reaching for bread or scratching his knee or looking her way. He danced at the edges of her consciousness throughout the night and she found herself comforted by his presence. Even when he said nothing or did nothing of note, his air was now distinctly that of Fenris rather than that of some unknown elf living within his skin. It was strange and wonderful to feel him flickering back into existence.

When the time came to sleep, however, Hawke found a new awkwardness that came of Fenris’ clawing his way back through the haze of stolen memories. Merrill lay in her own bed and Hawke, now clad only in the slip that she wore beneath her robes, found herself faced with a choice that she had not foreseen the discomfort of making. The bed she had shared with Fenris the night before was vacant now and she found herself having to choose between crawling in beside Merrill or slipping into the empty bed and allowing Fenris to lie beside her once more. She knew that the obvious thing to do was to sleep beside Merrill; it was the choice that the small, petulant Sebastian in her mind told her was the decent thing to do. Still, it seemed ridiculous to alter her behaviors based on the resurgence of one memory and a few small but distinct changes to Fenris’ attitude. After all, they had lain together the night before. Why should it be different now? Smiling nervously, she looked over at him. “So… would you rather have the bed to yourself tonight?”

He remembered the night before. She’d been unaware of him as he joined her beneath the blankets, but he had not had that same oblivious comfort. For all too long he had tried to sleep while being uncomfortably aware of her: of her warmth beside him, of her restless shifting as she turned in her sleep, of her leg as it had brushed against his tense body. If they were to leave in the morning, he had no wish to have his sleep disrupted by her tossing and turning as well as the perverse turns that his own mind took in the quiet blackness of night. “That would be best,” he told her.

She smiled tightly. “Okay then. I’ll just… pop in with Merrill.” Quickly, she dove beneath the covers beside the other mage. Yes. It was better that way.

When dawn came, they left Vol Dorma and began to trudge onwards. They moved away from the Imperial Highway once more and slanted slightly eastwards to find the lightly wooded terrain that stretched there. It was impossible to utterly avoid civilization now; the land they trod was situated between the Highway and the Nocen Sea. People, as they are wont to do, had erected cities along the water that had bled inland towards the main road. Small towns littered the landscape now and all in their party were uneasy. If these people had also received the information that a slave and his companions were on the run from Minrathous, there was an excellent chance that they would not hesitate to attempt to capture Fenris and the others. Though she never would have expected it of herself, Hawke found that she was eagerly anticipating the blighted desolation of The Silent Plains. But they were still several weeks away from that foul wilderness.

With Hawke at the helm, their party plunged onwards relentlessly. Their progress from Minrathous to Vol Dorma had been slow, but their speed now more than made up for it. There were too many sources of pressure closing in around Hawke for her to allow them to move forward lackadaisically. For one thing, they were still in the Imperium and still perilously close to its people. For another, Fenris’ mind had not stopped unlocking.

The first night away from Vol Dorma, Fenris had erected his shelter a short distance away from the others. While in the marketplace, Sebastian had, quite thoughtfully, remembered to buy Fenris a length of canvas with which he could make a tent of his own rather than encroaching on Hawke’s personal space. Though he did not sleep beside her, Hawke had still heard Fenris turning fitfully in his sleep. She had risen and shuffled through the darkness towards where he lay. That night, their camp was not lit by a fire. Though it was cold, Hawke had been unwilling to take the chance that someone might catch sight of their campfire and come to investigate. Nevertheless, Hawke could make out Fenris’ form beneath the light of the moon. He was covered in furs, his legs kicking out at intervals as he murmured foreign words in his sleep. She wished she understood Tevene. This time, she had not tried to shake him awake; instead she lifted a small, round pebble from the ground and tossed it at him. He woke with a start, panting.

“Fenris?” she’d whispered, venturing closer to him. “You were restless again. Is it… alright?”

He’d crept forward, the furs falling away from his body as he emerged from the tent. “Did I ever tell you about my time near the Arlathan Forest? In Brynnlain?”

 “No,” she breathed, studying his face with gentle eyes.

He shook his head, still looking lost in thought. “Hm, then I suppose you cannot confirm the veracity of the memory. There was a little girl, it seems; she was kind to me.” He ran his hand across the back of his neck, rubbing at the taut muscles of his shoulders. “Her parents were less so,” he added darkly. Sighing heavily, he glanced upwards at Hawke. “It seems my mind is reluctant to allow me to recall anything of a pleasant nature. But then, perhaps there is nothing pleasant to recall.”

“You beat Varric at Wicked Grace once,” suggested Hawke, smiling faintly. “Though perhaps that’s not really the sort of thing you were hoping for….”

He chuckled under his breath. She felt her stomach flip at the sound. “Well, it’s something, at least,” he said dryly, smiling at her beneath the moonlight.

After that, memories had continued to awaken with a frequency that worried Hawke. They were still several weeks away from Kirkwall and there was scarcely a night that passed when she did not hear him turning. The one thing that offered her any semblance of hope was that the memories seemed to be coming forward somewhat chronologically. That was not always the case; sometimes the day’s events triggered a recollection from a much more recent time. He had, for one thing, remembered that Merrill practiced blood magic. That did little to foster camaraderie in the group and the mounting tension between the two of them was yet another reason why Hawke was eager to get home. Still, the majority of his newly recovered memories were of events that had happened years before she had known him. Many years had passed between his escape from Danarius and his eventual return; the only hope she had was that those elapsed years had contained enough memories to fill at least two months of dreams.

As insurance that she would not trigger any memories of herself, Hawke knew that she ought to be making an effort to avoid spending a superfluous amount of time with Fenris. Such a thing, however, would have proved impossible had she tried it. Their party was small, after all, and it would be excessively difficult to avoid any one member without it being incredibly conspicuous. And there was the added difficulty that she kept finding herself matching his pace as they made they journeyed onwards towards Kirkwall. Hawke found herself drifting towards him if she let her attention lapse for even a moment.

The nights were the only times during which she was not with him. Since it was unadvisable to light a fire with towns so near, Hawke and Fenris had been unable to start their reading lessons together. There were, on most evenings, small fires lit so that dinner could be cooked, but they were always quickly doused out as soon as darkness fell. In the absence of the warmth and light of fire, most days ended with everyone slinking off to their respective tents and trying to sleep in spite of the cold. During those nights, she was able to put the sort of space between them that she ought to be constantly maintaining.

The trouble was, of course, that she hated that space. With each day that passed, she was becoming more sharply aware of the brevity of their time together. And she liked his company. She had never noticed before, but he was almost funny. Not in the same way as Varric, but in a dark, subtle way that you had to be paying attention in order to notice. It was a wonder that she had not noticed it before. During the long stretches of travel, when her feet were sore and her muscles aching, she liked to walk at his side; he was strong and resolute and, even in silence, she felt that his company imbued her with some of that same strength. It was foolish to walk at his side. She knew that. It was foolish to care and to allow him to burrow like a worm towards the rotten core of her heart. But she kept drifting towards him, and he towards her.

After the passage of several long days and nights, it was finally agreed amongst everyone that it wouldn’t be entirely unsafe to keep a bonfire burning throughout the night. Though they were still not terribly far from the Imperial Highway and were indeed still near to one of the streams that branched forth from a rather large river that met the sea somewhere near the coastal city of Vyrantium, the terrain was marshy enough that no intrepid settlers had built their homes here. Furthermore, The Silent Plains were not far off now and the chance for a night of true, restorative sleep may not come again for weeks. Admittedly, the idea of finally having a fire made Hawke almost giddy. It meant that, after she bathed, she’d be able to warm herself by the fire instead of letting her hair freeze into icicles.

“Merrill, would you like to come along and make sure that I don’t freeze to death?” asked Hawke hopefully as she gathered together the soap and rag she used while washing herself. “I’d hate for you lot to find me three hours from now frozen solid as an ice cube.”

“Of course, I’ll go with you, Hawke. I’m not particularly fond of frigid waters, but I will certainly watch from the shore so you don’t drown. That sounds very unpleasant.”

“Fair enough,” grinned Hawke. “Anyone else feel like going for a bath? We’re all mature enough not to giggle uncontrollably at the sight of one another’s genitals, right?” Hawke cast a glance around her encircled companions. Sebastian was, quite predictably, blushing and making very clear attempts to prevent himself from mentally picturing communal bathing.

“I can never sleep if my mane of chest hair is damp,” said Varric, running his hand across the aforementioned hair.

“Well, that’s a shame,” replied Hawke, frowning exaggeratedly. “I never get to see enough of you.”

Pointedly patting the crossbow next to him, he smiled and drawled, “Bianca….”

Hawke laughed, glancing towards where Fenris sat beside the now roaring fire. He was looking into the flames as if he were utterly unaware of the conversation that was taking place around him. She opened her mouth to say something, but, as a blush surged to her cheeks, decided it was probably better to allow for some separation during baths at least. “Come on Merrill,” she murmured, heading off towards the stream.

When they came upon a stretch of water that wasn’t too marshy, they were a good way away from the camp. Hawke took several quick breaths to ready herself for the cold and then, with as much speed as she could manage, stripped herself bare and plummeted into the water. It was so bitterly cold that she felt as if something had knocked the wind from her lungs. Gasping and shuddering, she let out a sharp laugh. Masochistic as it was, she loved to see how long she could put up with the cold of the water. It reminded her of a game she and Carver had played as children; they had leapt into the lake on cold mornings and each tried to stay in the water longer than the other. Carver had always won and she’d allowed him the pleasure of that victory over her. Hawke smiled at the memory as she gave in and began to radiate magic to heat the water that brushed against her skin. It was not much, but it was enough to stave off hypothermia.

“Creators, you must be freezing,” exclaimed Merrill in wonderment.

“I am, yes. Very much so,” called back Hawke as she began to scrub at her skin with the soap. “If my teeth were chattering any more violently, then they might shatter in my mouth.”

“That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? To have no teeth.” Merrill chuckled with her usual, tremulous good-humor.

“It would certainly make sex less enjoyable,” drawled Hawke absently. “What fun is there in coupling if you can’t leave your partner with a nice, large bruise on their shoulder?” It occurred to her that, perhaps, the chill of the water had stripped her of some of her rational faculties.

Merrill, however, had the courtesy to laugh politely. “You’re probably better at all that sort of thing than I am,” she muttered, shifting uneasily at the water’s edge. “There was never much, um, opportunity for learning all that whilst I was training with the Keeper. Not that I’ve never… well, never mind that.” She cleared her throat loudly before adding, “I’m sure I could stand to be a bit more adventurous. Like you and Isabela.”

Hawke let out a breath of laughter. “Well, I think maybe Isabela was a bit more bold than I.”

“Well, she’s more bold than most people,” conceded Merrill, with a shade of a sentimental smile playing around her lips. In spite of her own timidity, Merrill had developed a fondness for the raunchy stories she had heard while in Isabela’s company. Frowning, Hawke wondered how Merrill was dealing with the loss of her friend. Before she could ask, however, Merrill added, “Anders certainly never seemed disappointed with your prowess, in any case.” Then, a bit of panic in her tone, she continued, “Not that he divulged too much personal information! But I, well, got the sense that it was all very exciting.”

Hawke was unable to hold back the peal of laughter that burst from her. “Well, I suppose it was,” she said at last. “I really can’t take the credit for that, however; I learned everything I know from him.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “And that book about phallic-shaped tubers that Isabela gave me, I suppose.”

“That must have been quite fun,” said Merrill, sounding oddly wistful. “With two mages, I mean. Not the tubers.”

Running her fingers through the tangles of her hair, Hawke furrowed her brow slightly. “Why would it make a difference that we’re both mages?”

It was a lucky thing for Merrill that the darkness hid the brilliant blush that was now encompassing the entirety of her face. “Well, perhaps it’s a bit silly, but I thought… well, that you might know some… dirty spells?”

“Well, there are a few,” mused Hawke, trying desperately to keep herself from embarrassing Merrill further with a violent burst of laughter. “This little trick with electricity, for one thing… but it might be awkward to go over while I’m naked.”

“Yes, perhaps,” agreed Merrill. It might have been Hawke’s imagination, but she thought Merrill sounded a bit disappointed.

“I’ll lend you my grimoire when we get back to Kirkwall,” chuckled Hawke. “There’s plenty of dirty spells in there.” She dipped her head back in the water, allowing her hair to become wet. When she looked towards Merrill once more, her teeth chattering with renewed violence, the pale light of the moon broke through the clouds to reveal a thoughtful frown on Merrill’s face. “What is it?” Hawke asked as she worked frothing soap across her scalp.

“It’s too personal a question,” said Merrill, shaking her head slightly.

“Merrill, I’ve just been talking about electric sex and phallic tubers,” Hawke replied flatly. “I’m sure it’s not too personal.”

“Well,” began Merrill cautiously, “I was just wondering if you and Anders might work things out once we get back to Kirkwall. You both seemed so happy together. Neither of you should have to be alone.”

“There are worse things than being alone,” Hawke answered gently, fighting back the dull twinge of discomfort that always bloomed within her when she was forced to dredge up memories of what her feelings had been. Merrill looked down and Hawke tilted her head slightly to the side, studying her. “Are you… alone, Merrill?” she ventured gently. “Do you have someone back home?”

“No… I’m, afraid not, no,” Merrill replied, laughing a bit sadly. “I’m still not quite used to Kirkwall, I don’t think, and, I’ve been… invested… with my other project. I don’t think I’d have the time for a lover, really. Or that I’d be able to find anyone in the Alienage.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s scores of people in The Hanged Man who’d give an arm and a leg for the love of a girl like you,” suggested Hawke.

Merrill laughed shyly, hiding a smile. “That’s… sweet of you to say, Hawke. But it’s not traditional among the elven to take human lovers. It’s… troublesome for our people. Any child born of a human and an elf pairing is not an elf, you see, and our people are few enough as it is.”

“Hmm, I see,” said Hawke as she began to make her way towards the shore. “Well, no one in the Alienage and no one who’s not an elf.” She took a deep breath, trying to steel herself in preparation to emerge from the water. “I guess that just leaves Fenris.”

Merrill’s expression clearly exhibited her shock. “Creators, no! That would be a disaster! Oh, and you were joking, weren’t you?” she laughed. “Poor Fenris. It must have been very hard for him to always be so at odds with you; he must have had quite a difficult time coming to terms with all of it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hawke. Taking one last deep breath, she rushed from the water and fumbled into her clothing as quickly as she could.

Hawke was piling her wet hair on top of her head when Merrill shrugged and said, “Well, you are a mage, after all. It must have been very hard on him to love you, given how bitter and irrational he is when it comes to our kind.”

Hawke’s eyes opened as wide as saucers. “ _What_ must have been hard on him?” Surely she had misheard.

“Well… being in love with you,” answered Merrill, sounding vaguely surprised by Hawke’s confusion.

Hawke felt a greater shock than she had when she’d first plunged into the frigid water of the stream. It felt very much as if someone had punched her in the sternum. “What?” she gasped. “Fenris isn’t _in love_ with me! He doesn’t even remember me!” Stammering frantically, she added, “A-and even if he does have f-feelings, they’ll be gone soon enough. The moment he gets his memory of me back, he’ll go right back to wanting me dead.”

Merrill stared at Hawke, her green eyes wide and filled with mild alarm. “You really didn’t know?” she whispered, utterly dumbfounded. “When he gets his memories back, he’ll be in love with you. Well, perhaps not, given all that’s happened, but he was in love with you for years before that whole… awkward… business.” She left large pauses between her words, monitoring Hawke’s expression carefully as she spoke. “You truly didn’t know? We all assumed you just ignored it because you were with Anders.”

“Why in the Maker’s name would you think that he was in love with me?” sputtered Hawke, still trying to figure out how a relatively rational woman like Merrill could have come upon such a wild misconception.

“Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it?” she muttered quickly, brushing her hair behind her ear and looking at the ground. “Always staring after you with those big, puppy eyes….”

“There were no puppy eyes!” barked Hawke, clenching her hands into fists. Hawke took several deep breaths, calming herself. “That’s impossible,” she continued, keeping her voice even. “Fenris always hated me. _Always_. And… and we shouldn’t be talking about this anyway. They might… they might overhear us.” Camp was still far too distant for their words to be heard, but, now that the initial shock of Merrill’s words had passed, Hawke found herself oddly embarrassed. The idea that Fenris could have been in love with her… that something could have happened between them if she had just…. It was nonsense.

“Hawke… oh dear,” sighed Merrill anxiously. “I’ve gone and said something foolish to upset you. And… and perhaps I was wrong. You’d know better than I do.”

“No,” said Hawke quickly, “don’t apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. Really, you haven’t. And I’m sorry for being short with you just now… I was just surprised. There’s just… there’s just no way that that could be true. He’d never let himself love someone like me. A mage, I mean. It’s just… impossible.”

“Yes,” said Merrill gently. “You’re probably right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A)The conversation between Merrill and Hawke about “dirty” spells is inspired by banter from the Legacy DLC. Merrill is such a precious little pervert.  
> B) As you might have guessed, I have a map of Thedas. I do not, however, have a reliable scale or any useful information about geography or cities/towns. All I have is what I learned in AP Human Geography about where people tend to settle (along water… duh). If you’re curious, I’m assuming that it would take roughly 90 days to move from Minrathous to Kirkwall. I have no clue if that’s correct, but it takes roughly 88-ish days to travel across the United States on foot. That’s just how I’ve charted it and I’m pretty much sticking to that timeframe. Now, that’s a long time, so it was necessary to sort of use conservation of detail in this chapter. I assume that most everyone is too tired after a long day of walking to really do anything too interesting, especially when they’re pretty close to settlements (which I’m assuming they are).


	15. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is particularly fond of The Silent Plains.

Though he had no memory of her, Fenris still felt he knew Hawke well enough to know that something was troubling her. Though it was clear that she was attempting to appear indifferent to their situation, her marked change in behavior betrayed her. Just after they’d left Vol Dorma, she had seemed easy enough in his company. There were still, he noticed, those odd fluctuations in her mood—those unpredictable resurgences of sadness and concern that crept up and replaced the usual glimmer of her eyes. Those bouts had been growing less frequent, however, as they drew closer to The Silent Plains. At his side, she’d chattered on happily about the speed of their progress and asked him questions about the memories he’d been recovering. When the weather was particularly cold, he’d felt her press against him for warmth. It seemed, when he looked sidelong at her expression, that she did so unconsciously. The contact came, he knew, without particular feeling or expectation. Still, there was something strangely pleasant about the fact that she sought him out for warmth and comfort. It was as though she no longer thought of him as a fledgling bird in need of coddling; it was almost as if he were her equal. The easiness and unconsciousness of their interaction, however, had then halted abruptly.

As they crossed from the marshlands into the outskirts of The Silent Plains, she seemed uncomfortable and constantly conscious of their every interaction. When they spoke, she seemed always to be studying his face as if she were trying to discern something hidden in his eyes. She looked at him with her brow furrowed and spoke with an odd attention to her every word. Her candor and humor had fallen away entirely and she seemed bent on speaking only in a clipped, brusque style that was not her own. With the others, she spoke naturally enough and, when Sebastian made her laugh, Fenris observed that she lightly punched his shoulder. Meanwhile, her contact with him had been pointedly cut off. As they drew nearer to the most barren portion of the plains, he and Hawke walked so far apart that a magister’s palanquin could have easily passed between them. Once, as the snow was falling anew and covering the landscape ahead, she had drawn closer to him and moved near enough that their bodies brushed together. The moment that her shoulder collided lightly with his arm, however, she’d started as if she’d felt an electric shock and leapt away from him. Then, stranger still, she’d apologized for touching him.

It was not the absence of this contact that bothered him, really, nor was it the change in her manner. What troubled him was the fact that he hadn’t the faintest notion what it was that had triggered this alteration. He’d done and said nothing out of the ordinary and, no matter how he retraced his memory of the past days, he could find nothing he’d done that would have caused her to feel so ill at ease in his company. He hadn’t even antagonized the blood mage because he sensed that doing so irritated Hawke. That meant, of course, that the change in her attitude had something to do with the years that he could not remember. With that being the case, there was little he could do to understand the situation. Try as he might, the memories of her were not returning. How many nights had he lain in his tent, eyes closed, and tried to call forth some recollection of her? All that came however, were the new memories that had formed since she’d come to Minrathous. Her skin which smelled of orange blossoms, her mouth which tasted of clove, the way she knelt at his feet each morning to fasten the boots she still insisted he wear. He thought of these things as he lay alone in the darkness and hoped that they would bring forth similar memories of the past. But there was nothing of those lost days.

Hawke’s distance only served to make The Silent Plains more insufferable. Though they had not journeyed far into their depths, Fenris was already eager to leave them behind. He was not alone in that feeling. It was agreed amongst the band of travellers that the plains were decidedly unsettling.

As they trudged onwards, the plains stretched, vast and empty, in all directions. Long ago, before the darkspawn taint had thoroughly seeped into every inch of this now infertile soil, these lands had already been sparsely populated. The fields, now stripped of their grasses, had proved untenable even before that Blight had come. The only benefit of this isolation, as far as any of them could tell, was that there was no longer any fear that some wandering villager would see the light of their campfire. Still, even the ruddy glow of the flames did little to make the nights more cheerful. The land was devoid of life in a way that was almost palpable and, even as they huddled close to one another, they felt the weight of what had once plagued these wilds.

Hawke had warned them, as they entered the worst of the wastes, that they should all be very careful of what they ate and touched whilst they were in a land where the taint was still present. Though she said nothing of him, Varric knew that she was thinking of Carver. Of the way he’d looked when the sickness had finally overtaken him. As she spoke, her voice authoritative and strong, there was the gleam of wetness along her lower lashes that Varric had seen only a very few times. She complained that the wind was stinging her eyes as she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. They had trailed after her as she suddenly insisted upon continuing at a faster pace.

They had not been long upon the plains when the snow began to fall once more. It lay across the earth—expansive and white—and made the bleak terrain seem endless. During the day, the sky was the pale, watery gray of mist. The line where that colorless, arching sky met with the white plane of snow was nearly indistinguishable as a horizon. It was disorienting to travel onwards when landmarks were so few, but Hawke always seemed to keep herself facing resolutely in the same direction so that they would not lose their way and be forced to spend one more moment in The Silent Plains than was absolutely necessary.

Her rush was understandable. Beyond the fact that this area was doing little to lift the spirits of their party, it also proved to be far more dangerous than the surrounding environment. During their first days on the plains, Varric had tried to make the days run shorter by regaling them with tales of the Fifth Blight and how the Hero of Ferelden had saved his homeland from the fate that this terrain had suffered. Without so much as a tree or a rising hill to block the sound, his words echoed across the landscape. A pack of blighted wolves, hearing the sound of life, had come tearing across the flat wilderness. Their paws cracked the pristine surface of the snow, flinging up glittering dust as their lean, spare bodies carried them towards their prey. Their mouths were wet with anticipation of fresh meat, their noses lifted to catch the scent of clean flesh. They had been hungry for so long.

When the wolves lay slaughtered, their blood soaked into the disheveled snow and their mouths, still filled with eager saliva, hung open and empty. Hawke, kneeling beside one of the bodies and watching the steam of its last breath rising faintly from its jaws, told Varric and the others that they would have to make a point to be more quiet in the future. There was no point attracting beasts to them unnecessarily. Hawke rose from the ground, frowning. It was worse sometimes with beasts. Even as they lunged for her throat, she felt that wild animals had an innocence that men lacked; it was never their intention to do harm. Unthinkingly, she moved closer to Fenris, her shoulder pressing against his arm. He was still cleaning his sword, blood falling from it in droplets as he wiped a cloth along the length of his blade. Feeling her familiar touch once again, his body stilled. He glanced at her face, his brow drawn. The tip of her nose was reddened from the cold and her hair whipped across her eyes as it was lifted by the wind. When his sword was sheathed, Fenris reached out cautiously and brushed the hair from her face. At this, she looked up at him, the clouds of her breath mingling with his own. Then, as if she had just realized what she’d done, she stepped away from him, shaking her head and murmuring apologies. Fenris allowed himself to sigh heavily and grumbled that they should move on. Nodding wordlessly, she turned and led them onwards through the snow.

The wolves were not the last of the predators they faced. Too many desperate creatures had feasted upon the corpses of darkspawn and become tainted. Even the carrion crows that circled overhead bore the red, glinting eyes that signified their corruption. A warped bear, boney protrusions thrusting up from amongst its mangy fur, caught their scent one night and ambushed them while they slept. The smell of its burnt fur and charred flesh hung over their camp long after they had left it in the morning. After that, they were more diligent about keeping guard over their camp. In shifts, they watched for danger.

When Hawke and Fenris kept watch together, a complete week since they’d left civilization behind entirely, she tried not to look at him. She was always trying not to look at him these days. It was unfair to let him believe that they were friends. When he had been without memory and without the strength to carry on without her, the kindness she’d shown then had been out of compassion. Now, as he regained his memories and his courage, her kindness was cruel. He’d remember soon what she had done and, when that day came, she didn’t want him to feel conflicted. She wanted him to be able to hate her with the purity and force that her betrayal warranted. What Merrill had said at the waterside was an impossibility, but it had been troubling Hawke since. She wondered now if that had been the reason Fenris hadn’t fought when she handed him over to Danarius. If it had been the crushing pain of being betrayed by a woman he’d loved and trusted that had rendered him too defeated to offer resistance. If he had loved her then, her actions had been all the more despicable. As if such a thing were possible.

Still, she felt his confusion. He’d noticed the shift, she knew, and it pained him. This pain, however, would make it easier for him when he sought retribution for what she’d done to him. Resolutely, she kept her eyes fixed on the point where the light of their campfire met the darkness. Beyond that glowing line, she could see nothing. It was as though they were trapped within a sphere of light and all else in the world had faded from existence; she wished violently that this were the case. Wondering in an instant if he watched the same point as she, Hawke glanced at him and found that his eyes were fixed on her. She smiled sadly, bowing her head and blinking back the tears that suddenly came unbidden into her eyes. One tear—a blasted, dratted, damnable thing—escaped from her eye and fell onto her cloak with an audible splash. Fenris said nothing, but lifted his arm to pull her to his side. His gaze then was quizzical, as though he were asking if it were alright to hold her in this manner. Shakily, she nodded, and looked down to where her fingers toyed helplessly with the jet cloth of his cloak. She couldn’t pull away from him then. It was too late. Silently, they turned their eyes back towards the darkness and waited for daybreak.

The days grew warmer after that and, as they drew nearer towards the edge of The Silent Plains, there were signs that they were leaving the most heavily blighted portion of that terrain. They were no more than a five day walk from the Minanter River when Merrill stooped down suddenly and called for the others. The snow, melted slightly after a few brief days of sunshine, had parted to reveal a damp, brown piece of earth. Growing in that soil was a small, yellow crocus flower just on the cusp of blooming. Merrill reached her thin fingers towards the blossom, but Hawke stopped her before she could pluck it. “No,” murmured Hawke, “Let it grow for now. The snow will come soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) “Say, that was a weird chapter. Why was there no dialogue?” Meh. Since it’s The Silent Plains, I thought I’d fool around and try a chapter which focused on the things people aren’t saying. To drive that point obnoxiously home, I tried a little experiment in which I didn’t use dialogue until they left the plains. I love dialogue and so I quickly regretted that decision.
> 
> B) “Why aren’t the memories of Hawke that Fenris keeps reliving triggering anything else?” Because they’re pretty darn unlike anything that happened before. Their relationship in the past, in spite of what he may have felt for her then, was still largely adversarial. That’s not really the case anymore and therefore he’s not really tapping into the right emotion.
> 
> C) “And what was with that super weird business with the wolves?” I like wolves. I hate having to kill them in Origins because they make the saddest sounds. I feel the same way with the mabari packs in DAII. You all are sweet to put up with my obvious insanity.
> 
> D) Have you ever spent a winter in Wyoming? It's a lot like this. And the bears are just as pissed.


	16. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang enjoys story time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some spoilers from DA: Awakening. Very minor spoilers, but I still thought I should warn you.

> “And, Oh my God, is this really what you want?  
>  Would you tell us if it's not?  
>  And could you rewrite the plot  
>  And come and get us?  
>  ‘Cause we can't stop doing what we think we want  
>  Even though we know it's not;  
>  This place is merely a subplot  
>  To come and get us.”
> 
> _-“Ten Dead Dogs”, Wild Sweet Orange_

Merrill knew these hillsides. She knew the fresh, metallic scent of snowfall and the wind that carried silvery clouds from the east. Her feet had ground against that dark soil, toes digging against the cool earth and the soft greenery that sprouted as spring drew near. The winter had been warm and already the branches of the trees were decorated with the pale yellow leaves of the coming season. Perhaps the next frost, sweeping across this hillside suddenly during the coming months, would stunt the growth of new life, but in that moment, as they stood among the rolling hills of Nevarra, the darkness seemed very far away. She knelt to ground, digging her fingers into the soil of her homeland and coming away with a fistful of earth; she closed her palm around it. Opening her hand, it remained furrowed from her grasp. Merrill smiled; this was so different from the loose, arid soil of Sundermount. She glanced up and, seeing the others staring at her, she rose from the ground. “It’s quite pretty, isn’t it?” she said meekly, gesturing to their surroundings as the brown earth fell like rain through her fingers.

“The trees are nice,” agreed Hawke, glancing upwards towards the still bare canopy of the forest. “I haven’t been in a place this wooded since leaving Ferelden. The nostalgia sort of itches, doesn’t it?” As if to illustrate her point, she scratched absently at the skin over her heart.

Merrill’s lips parted slightly, her teeth white as pearls against her pink lips. “I know just what you mean,” she sighed happily, already drifting off somewhat from the party to explore a slight clearing in the trees where the sunlight cast brilliant beams of dancing light. Shrugging, Hawke trailed after Merrill and the others, as they so often did, trailed after Hawke.

There was a small evergreen tree—barely a sapling, really—growing towards the edge of the clearing. The sun shone on its hopeful, outstretched branches and, as Merrill approached, she saw that white flowers were beginning to emerge around the base of the tree. “Oh, look!” she called happily, glancing over her shoulder to where Hawke stood. “The honeysuckle are going to flower soon.” Along the clutching vines there were numerous small buds that looked as if their petals would soon splay apart beautifully. “It’s a pity that we haven’t any of these in Kirkwall,” she lamented.

“You’d think they’d wait for spring,” muttered Hawke, stepping forward and lightly taking one of the buds between her thumb and forefinger. “Flowers really shouldn’t blossom while conditions are still so volatile.”

“How can you ask that? Daisy’s been blooming all winter,” Varric said casually as he sat atop a small boulder, flicking away a clump of mud that had gathered on the heel of his boot.

Hawke raised a brow, smiling crookedly. “I think this fresh mountain air has made you foolish, Dwarf. Now I see why your lot typically stay underground.”

“You’re lucky that I’m amused with your abuse, Hawke,” he laughed. “You’d be lost without me.” Pointedly, he lifted the map on which he traced their movements and gestured towards her with it.

“In answer to your question,” interjected Merrill, blushing slightly, “it’s just the time for honeysuckle to start to flower. They’re such resilient little flowers and the winters are so mild here in Nevarra.” She smiled, surveying the woods fondly. “It’s so lovely here; I haven’t been amongst these hills since I was sent off with Keeper Marathari.” Then, frowning thoughtfully, she added, “I wonder if the Alerion clan still wanders these hillsides.” She knelt, pressing her flat palm against the soil and staring at the damp, loamy earth once more.

“We might come across them,” suggested Hawke without believing her words. She was still stooping before the honeysuckle, her brow furrowed. She stared at the flower—the pale white petals with their blush of purple—that rested against her fingers. In Lothering, she’d planted honeysuckle in Bethany’s herb garden. It had been ages; she’d all but forgotten the incidenct. She’d neglected the shrub, forgetting that she’d planted it, and the vines had grown out, slinking with time across the mulch and curling around Bethany’s rosemary bush. Always plant rosemary by the gate, their father had said, and, of course, Bethany had followed his instruction. The honeysuckle had choked the rosemary and the bush was left, dry and dead, while the honeysuckle had thrived and spread, stealing the life from the whole of the garden. Hawke remembered the dirt that had blackened her nails as she'd dug down deep, planting fresh herbs with her sister and tearing at the roots of the fragrant honeysuckle. Hawke dropped her hand to her side, staring absently at the flowers. “I used to love the taste of honeysuckle,” she murmured before turning back to the others. “Now that we’ve stopped to admire the scenery, how about we move along? I’d like to be on the southern face of this hill before evening.”

Even though Hawke continued to spur them forwards mercilessly, it was difficult to resent her overmuch. A general giddiness had swept over the party since they’d left the Silent Plains and, though several days had passed, they still found themselves in just the right temperament to travel. The days had been lovely as well; only one light snowfall had interrupted a series of otherwise pleasant days. Moreover, there was no longer the same scarcity of food that had made them all thin and ill-tempered during their days in the barren wastes of the plains. As they walked, Hawke encouraged Sebastian and Varric to shoot quarry and, at the end of most days, there was a good deal of meat for their enjoyment. There was also, amongst the lush forests of Nevarra, the chance to bathe. All in all, the quality of life had vastly improved and left their party feeling almost chipper.

No elevation of mood, however, could make them immune to exhaustion. On the southern face of the hill, perhaps two or so hours before sunset, Hawke agreed that it was probably best to find somewhere to make camp for the evening. On a relatively flat outcropping of rock, they erected their tents. There was a stream running somewhere through the forest that Hawke had glimpsed through the trees, but it was beyond her hearing. While the others began to skin the rabbits that Varric and Sebastian had shot over the course of the day, Hawke went around to her companions and asked for their most soiled garments so that she might give them a wash in the stream.

“You… want my dirty clothes?” asked Fenris slowly when she approached him about the matter.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Well, it’s not as if I’m going to hold them to my nose and think dirty thoughts, Fenris; I just thought I’d launder a few things. It’s a warm enough night and there’s the chance that, if I wash everything now, it’ll be dry by morning. So put on whatever’s the least soiled and give me the rest.”

Grumbling slightly, he crawled into his tent to change. As he began to strip, he looked over his shoulder to make sure that Hawke wasn’t watching; he found that she was holding a blanket at the mouth of his tent, obscuring him entirely from view. Shaking his head, he smiled.

When he was dressed in the clothes that had been purchased for him ages ago in the city, Fenris moved to exit the tent with the remainder of his wardrobe wedged beneath one arm. Lightly, he tapped his balled fist against the blanket that Hawke still held. Obligingly, she swept it aside, offering her hand to help him from the ground. When he stood before her, she shook her head. “I will never quite get used to seeing you out of your armour,” she said. “Now hand over your laundry.”

He hesitated. “You needn’t spend your entire evening scrubbing dirty socks; I might as well be of some assistance to you whilst the others prepare the meal.”

Hawke shrugged. “Alright. I’ve certainly never relished performing domestic tasks on my own. Are you sure you don’t mind? You could help the boy’s chop up those little animal carcasses, if you’d prefer.”

He allowed himself to smile crookedly. “Astonishingly, I think I’d prefer being wrist-deep in soap to being wrist-deep is animal entrails.”

She laughed, turning in the direction of water as he walked at her side. “You know,” she said, “for someone who doesn’t like fishing around inside of animals, you certainly do reach inside an awful lot of people.”

“A fair point. All the more reason to make sure my hands get a thorough cleaning, yes?” She laughed, nudging his arm with her elbow. Her arms were full of garments and a small bag containing a scrub brush and a bar of white soap hung from her index finger. With her arms so laden, she was unable to see where she feet fell and, as they made their way through the woods, she stumbled slightly on occasion. Whenever she lost footing a little, she gasped almost inaudibly. Her eyes opened wider and her lips parted in that first moment of shock before she regained her balance and composure. Though he offered to help carry her burden, she said that it would be more trouble than it was worth and that they’d be by the water soon enough. And so he watched as she stumbled along--watched her eyes widen and her breath catch--and he'd felt the tree branches that he was too distracted to notice as they collided with his face.

Beside the stream, Hawke settled on a broad, smooth rock that slanted into the water. Kneeling at the water’s edge, she lay the laundry aside and looked up at Fenris. Smiling, she rubbed her hand across the stone, trailing her palm in slow circles over its surface. He watched her as she beckoned him; her smile was warm though there was something timid in her eyes as he approached her and knelt at her side. “Have you… ever washed clothes before?” she asked.

“I’d imagine that it’s fairly intuitive. I’m willing to make the rather brazen assumption that one wets the clothing, scrubs it with soap, and then removes said soap through the application of further water,” he answered dryly.

She was trying to look cross with him, but he saw her lips trembling as she fought back a smile. “Well, with that sort of keen domestic instinct, it’s a wonder that you never bothered to clean your house,” she replied tartly, creeping towards the water with a shirt of Varric’s in one hand and the soap in the other.

“Perhaps I would have if you’d generously offered to assist me.”

“Perhaps I will when we get home,” she said quickly, instinctively. Hearing herself say the words, she bit down hard on her tongue as a form of flagellation. Her idiocy truly seemed to be without bounds. With rough movements, she ran the foaming bristles of the brush over the underarms of the shirt in an effort to work out the worst of the sweat.

“Will it be long before we arrive in Kirkwall?” he asked after she’d allowed the silence to stretch between them for a long moment.

“Soon,” she nodded, beating the shirt against the stone. Her knuckles were pink from the cold of the water as she clutched at the fabric, lathering it frantically. “If we keep up this pace… a few weeks. No more than three, I’d guess.” Quietly, she added, “And then everything can go back to normal.”

He nodded wordlessly, dipping one of his most heavily soiled socks into the water and allowing some of the filth to soak away before he asked for the soap and scrub brush. She had been lost in thought, it seemed, and his voice took her by surprise. “Of course. Here you go,” she said, smiling and shaking her head as if to banish whatever thoughts had been occupying her mind. As he accepted the supplies, she felt his hands against her own. His hands still bore the callouses that came with wielding a sword. She didn’t allow herself to think what it might be like to feel those battle-roughened palms slowly running across exposed skin, but she did let her eyes trail after his hands as they dipped into the water once more. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up above his elbows and she could see the muscles of his forearms shifting beneath his skin as he worked the soap diligently into the fabric. Since leaving Minrathous, he’d regained some of the muscle that he had lost while in Danarius’ possession; she’d made conscious efforts to make sure that he ate more than others and was glad to see that it was paying off. Smiling, she wrung out the shirt she held and laid it out on the stone.

They worked mostly in silence, their conversation intermittent. It was peaceful enough to be engaged in such a simple, methodical task while at his side. She never would have thought about the comfort that could be found in the mundane. It was oddly exciting, to feel him close to her and performing the sort of everyday task upon which a life is built. Once he was done with his own clothes, Fenris reached over and helped with her rather sizeable heap. Glancing over at him as he worked, she saw that he was scrubbing diligently at the hem of one of her robes. His brow was furrowed slightly with concentration, casting a shadow over his eyes. Hawke smiled and stifled a laugh. The muffled sound nevertheless escaped her lips, drawing his attention.

“Do my fervent efforts amuse you?” he asked, looking up at her.

She shook her head, turning her eyes back towards the now frothing stream. “No. It was just…. You looked so serious, is all.”

“Yes, I can see how that would be amusing,” he said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh hush up,” she murmured, going back to her task. She heard him laugh at her under his breath and fought the urge to look at him again. Still, she couldn’t help but picture the expression he wore when he let himself laugh; that slight curve of his lips, the way he always looked down as if it embarrassed him to be caught smiling. Her fingers tightened around the bar of soap and it slid from her hand.

It wasn’t long before everything was as clean as it had the potential to be. Given the scarcity of their clothing, everything had become rather threadbare and stained from excessive wear. Still, at least the worst of the caked mud and blood had been washed away and the lingering odors of stale sweat were now replaced by the light scent of soap. They gathered together the articles that lay scattered around them, holding the damp clothes against themselves as they made their way back towards camp. The sun was setting now and the shadows they cast across the underbrush stretched long. The moisture of their laundry soaked into the clothes Hawke wore; as she always did when she was cold, she moved against Fenris. He watched their shadows as they walked through the woods; the combined form of their bodies as the darkness they cast fused into one and became indistinguishable. As they grew closer to the brilliant blaze of the campfire, the light threw their shadow behind them. When they passed into the clearing, Hawke stepped away from him, moving off towards her tent to fetch a length of rope. Together, she and Fenris strung the cord near the fire where the others were gathered; they hung the clothes, each starting at opposing ends and finding their way towards the middle of the suspended rope. She smiled at him, flushed from the warmth of the flame, and brushed her hair from her face. “Dinner?” she asked quietly. He nodded and they joined the others, helping themselves to some of the well-turned rabbit meat.

While Hawke and Fenris had been beside the water, the others had dragged several logs around the fire to create makeshift benches. Now they sat engaged in conversation. Or rather, Varric was engaged in a monologue and the others were listening intently. The arrival of the newcomers was acknowledged with a nod and a slight lapse in his speech. “You’ve begun without us, Varric,” Hawke chided lightly. “However will we catch up to you?”

He smiled and shrugged apologetically. “The mood for storytelling struck suddenly, Hawke. Put me beside a roaring campfire and surround me with eager ears and there’s no way I can fight off the urge. In any case, I’m sure you’ve heard this story before; I got it from Blondie.”

She felt her muscles tense at the mention of Anders. “It’s about mages, isn’t it?” she drawled before taking a large bite of rabbit.

Varric grinned broadly. “As it so happens, yes. One mage in particular: your cousin, Diarmuid Amell.”

“We’re not cousins,” corrected Hawke.

Varric rolled his eyes. “Second cousins, third cousins—we can trace the Amell line as carefully as you’d like, but let’s just stick with basics and say ‘cousin’.”

“If you say so,” she shrugged, taking another bite of rabbit. Beside her, Fenris furrowed his brow and examined her expression. She was being unusually taciturn. “By all means, proceed,” she added after she’d swallowed.

Varric turned back to the others, adopting the theatrical air he used while telling stories of a serious nature. Always while he spoke, however, there was delight glimmering in his eyes. The thrill of being heard and of weaving a tale could not be concealed even when he spoke gravely. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his splayed knees, he began anew. “Though they had followed the trail of the missing Warden, there was no sign of him in the room he kept above the tavern. Diarmuid paced the room, his keen amber eyes searching for any sign of the man’s presence. All he sensed, however, was the palpable aura of disuse. Even the air was stale with no breath to disturb it. Every surface was covered with a sprinkling of dust that told the bright-eyed hero that these floors had not been trod in days.” Hawke stared into the fire; Diarmuid had gray eyes, not amber. Anders had told her so, describing the relative she had never met in detail she had not demanded of him. “Wherever the man was, it was clear that something had unexpectedly prevented his return. Though he was young, Diarmuid had seen enough in his short lifetime to know that the man he sought was clearly in dire straits. But there was no sign of where he had fallen into such peril. Diarmuid turned to his companions—Anders, the mage who had just barely escaped the hangman’s noose, Nathaniel, the disgraced yet noble son of Rendon Howe, and the mighty dwarf Oghren, who had fought beside Diarmuid for years beyond measure—and he asked them what signs they could find. And yet none among their number could provide any clue that might guide them in their mission. Sighing with defeat, they began to trudge from the room with their hopes fading and flickering like a candle guttering out. It was then, just when he’d lost hope of finding the trail, that the young hero heard the slightest sound of creaking wood.

“He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Right, left, right, left.” Varric slightly moved his feet along with his tale. Merrill seemed engrossed, though it looked like Sebastian was more interested in crafting his own arrows than in listening to the story. Now and again, he glanced up towards Varric, but his attention seemed to drift unfailingly back to his bow. When Fenris turned to her, Hawke seemed determined to focus on her feet as she ground the tips of her boots into the soil. “The floorboard, Diarmuid noticed, had a single notch in the side that had worn away as it was pried up time and time again. He bid his companions to wait and bent, removing the stiletto from his boot, and sliding its glinting tip into the well-worn groove. Lifting up the loose floorboard, he found a hidden cache of Kristoff’s possessions. Among those precious items that the vanished Warden had kept carefully hidden, was a map, yellowed at the edges from much use. It was that map that revealed the single, solitary clue as to where he might be found. He’d gone, it seemed, to the most foul and cursed land in Amaranthine: the Blackmarsh.

“Now, Diarmuid shook his head, lamenting that any man should have ventured to so foul a place. Even wild beasts—wolves and the cawing crows that feast upon death—did not stir in the shadows of the marsh. Through the city and fields of Amaranthine, it was whispered that a terrible curse had been visited upon the village that had once thrived on that site. In the light of the moon, through the mists that rose and fell amongst the decaying wreck of the village, it was said that bold, foolish travellers had seen the corpses of the dead rise, writhing still from the agony of their deaths. No man, it was said, left the Blackmarsh with his mind or soul fully intact. But, if ever there were a man who could survive the harrowing depths of that fell landscape, it was surely the Hero of Ferelden. And so he and his band of comrades set off to retrieve Kristoff—be he dead or alive.”

“Oh, he was alive, wasn’t he?” asked Merrill breathlessly, twisting her hands together in her lap.

Varric laughed. “That’s all part of the story, Daisy. We’ll get there.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” she muttered. “I’ll wait then.”

“You’re one hell of a good audience, Daisy,” he grinned, shaking his head before continuing on in ominous tones.

Varric had barely gone another ten seconds into his tale before Fenris felt Hawke’s finger tapping against his arm. “Are you terribly invested in this story?” she whispered, her breath gusting across his cheek as she leaned in close.

“Not particularly.”

She smiled. “Then do you want to sneak off and have your first reading lesson?” He glanced towards Varric, who seemed to be paying little attention to them; his story seemed now to be told primarily for Merrill’s amusement. She was, it appeared, a truly fantastic audience. Turning back to Hawke, Fenris answered her with a nod. Her smile broadened into a grin. “Come with me,” she murmured, grasping his hand. “The books are in my tent.” She stood quickly and dragged Fenris along after her. Behind them, Varric’s tale continued uninterrupted and something he said caused Merrill to gasp.

“You don’t much enjoy hearing tales of your cousin, do you?” Fenris asked as Hawke slid into her tent and left him standing at its entrance. He could hear her fumbling around inside, searching for the texts she needed.

Her hand stilled within her satchel as she thought of how to answer. She didn’t want to tell him that stories caused her to ache in a way that was almost painful. When she had heard them first, they had been whispered in her ear by Anders. While they were gathered around the campfire with the words spilling from Varric’s mouth, she hadn’t wanted to think of Anders or of some distant relative she’d never met. She could feel Fenris sitting beside her and she didn’t want to waste this fading time listening to stories.

She crawled from the tent, three books and several sheets of paper beneath one arm and a blanket beneath the other. “Believe me, I’ve heard all about my cousin. He and Anders were involved while they were serving the Wardens in Amaranthine.” She rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. “I’ve never particularly enjoyed the never-ending stream of stories about my paramour’s former lover. On top of that, our friend Isabela also had a taste once. So trust me, I’ve heard it all. Everything from the fact that he casts an amazing Death Cloud to the fact that he’s hung like a horse.”

Fenris stared at her with wide eyes. “Your abomination… told you that?”

For a moment, she looked puzzled and then, realizing what he was referring to, she laughed. “No! Anders told me the thing about the Death Cloud; Isabela told me about his gargantuan genitals. Whenever anyone anywhere finds out that I’m the new scion of the Amell line, they tend to tell me everything they know about the great and powerful Hero of Ferelden. Since Isabela and Anders both knew him, it came up often enough. I’ve actually never met the boy. He was in the Circle Tower and we Hawkes were usually on the run. We were, I hear, in Lothering at the same time. But we never met. To Varric’s great disappointment. He keeps trying to work out a way for the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall to run off and have adventures together.”

“Such a fate doesn’t interest you, I take it?

She looked earnestly into his eyes. “I just want to get you home. I’ll worry about what comes after that later.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head before he could speak. “I’ve had enough, I think, of stories about real people. I’d much rather read one of these lovely tomes that we have here and forget about reality for as much time as we can possibly manage.” Then, smiling slightly, she added, “But, before we can do that, we have to practice your letters."

Together, the strode to the edge of the outcropping and situated themselves as far away from camp as they could be without technically leaving the site. It was dark there, with the fire glowing too far from them for any words they might try to read to be visible. Such a simple matter was no hindrance to Hawke; she lifted her hand and a glowing sphere of pale green light bloomed in her palm. Fenris watched as it swelled and then, when she made a motion as if to toss it into the air, it drifted above them as if suspended weightlessly. It bathed them both in its ethereal glow as Fenris watched Hawke lay out the blanket on the ground. When she turned to him, face bright and illuminated by the sphere of light, he was almost grateful to her magic for allowing him to see her expression. “Shall we?” she asked, positioning herself on the blanket so that she lay stretched full-length on her stomach with her elbows propping up her torso. The books and papers, along with a quill and ink, were laid out on a hard, flat piece of fallen bark that she’d pulled closer. Cross-legged, Fenris sat beside her and peered at the implements she had provided.

Already, he could feel himself becoming daunted by the prospect of beginning this process with her. There was this foul little part of his mind that offered hope that he’d instantly take to the new enterprise and dazzle her with his brilliance; then, there was the proper, thinking part of his brain that told him that he would, of course, make mistakes and she would probably laugh at his stupidity and ignorance.

Swiftly, she wrote out a series of carefully formed letters across the page, leaving great gaps between the characters. “Now,” she said in a firm tone, “you’re going to trace over the letter I wrote and then, in the space I’ve left around it, you’re going to copy the same letter. While you do that, we’ll go over the possible sounds that that letter can make.”

Fenris stared at her blankly. “You haven’t much faith in my intelligence, have you?”

She pursed her lips, though the corners of her mouth were still lifted at the corners. “I know that this is a slow start, but last time I started off too quickly and you got frustrated with me and hurled a book into the fireplace. So, this time, I thought I’d try a different approach. We’re going to get it right this time.” Her lips parted, revealing bright teeth as she grinned at him. “How does that sound?”

“Fine,” he mumbled, lying on the ground beside her and pulling the makeshift desk in front of him. She held out the quill to him and, as he took it from her hand, her fingers brushed against his. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he thought that she allowed her touch to linger against his hand. It was only an instant, if it was anything at all, and, soon she was staring expectantly at the page and waiting for him to begin. Feeling slightly embarrassed and yet strangely excited, he ran the tip of the quill along the lines that that she had left behind.

“Good,” she said, nodding in affirmation. “And what sound does that letter make?”

He looked up, making sure that the others were still far out of the range of hearing. They were largely engrossed in Varric’s story so, keeping his voice just above a whisper, Fenris obliged her by making the sounds she demanded of him. He felt like an idiot but she smiled broadly, clapping her hands together lightly. “Good!” she said. “Now copy it four times.” He rolled his eyes and indulged her.

They continued on through the letters briskly. After very little time, Fenris was able to forget the mild humiliation he felt at being instructed in something that Hawke had learned as a child. They spoke in hushed voices though they were well beyond the hearing of the others, and, even when she corrected his errors, it was in a soft manner that didn’t seem overly authoritative. Somehow, her hand came to be resting on his forearm; he voiced no objections. Far off, Fenris could hear the others laughing loudly at something Varric had said, but beside him he could hear the hushed, even sound of Hawke’s breath. She murmured quiet praise as he repeated the same tasks over and over, feeling his muscles remembering the motions. “Alright,” she whispered, fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “Let’s see if you can do it alone.” She took the piece of paper that bore their letters across it and, carefully folding it, lay it aside. With a blank sheet before him, Fenris looked at her. “It’s in there,” she murmured, lifting her hand to gently swipe across his temple. “Everything you need is in your head just waiting for you to find it again.”

He sighed, creating the lines of those letters across the ivory sheet that lay before him. As he did so, her index finger was toying with a lock of hair that hung beside his ear. Out of the corner of his eyes, he looked at her. She was watching the page, seemingly unaware of the fact that it was her touch that made his letters tremble. Soon, as carelessly as she had touched him, she lowered her hand and touched the surface of the page. “This looks good,” she smiled. “And you got everything in order.” Running her fingers just past the still-wet ink of his letters, she said, “Make the sounds for me.” As she pointed, he muttered wordlessly into her waiting ear.

She turned to him; his face was near to her own now. “Do you… want to try reading from the books that Varric bought for us?” Her eyes glanced, unbidden, towards his slightly parted lips. So close to her, she feel his breath against her skin. His breath smelled of lemongrass. How was it possible that, after all these weeks of travel, that sweet scent still clung to him? He murmured something, his mouth moving and contorting beautifully as he formed the words. She wondered what they would feel like moving against her own lips; she wondered how he would taste if he allowed her to slip her tongue into his mouth. Looking away suddenly, she found that she was shaking. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “What did you say?”

When she glanced back at him, he was clearly amused by her distractibility. “Which book?” he repeated.

“We’ll start off slow,” she murmured, reaching for one of the three tomes that lay beside her. She chose a red, leather-bound book and read the title aloud to him. “You’ve read this one before, but you liked it.” Smiling to herself, she added, “I remember that you go so angry at the villain that you kept slamming the book shut. It… made me laugh.” Looking back up at him, she added, “So why don’t I read aloud while you point to the words with the quill? Sometimes I’ll have you try a word for me, so make sure you pay attention.”

He reached, reverently running his fingers over the binding of he book before he opened it with gentle hands. “I’ll pay attention,” he smiled.

It was simple enough story about pirates, and bandits, and insurmountable odds standing in the way of hero’s triumphant end. As they read along together, they shifted periodically in an attempt to discover a position that was comfortable whilst allowing them both to see the page. Somehow, after countless adjustments, he found himself seated with his spine resting against a tree and his legs, crooked at the knee, parted so that she could sit between them. Her back was slouched against his body, her head resting on his chest while she held the book aloft for both of them to see. While she spoke, the tip of the quill traced lazily beneath the words as she uttered them. At times, she would ask him to read a word or a sentence for her. He’d oblige, sometimes tripping over the syllables but never allowed to stop his efforts until he had succeeded and received her praise. The words came easier than he would have thought; they were achingly familiar, as though they were trapped just out of his reach.

She asked him to try an entire passage, assuring him that it was fine to make mistakes and that he was doing extraordinarily well after so short a time. She took the quill from him, pointing to the words he was meant to say. Her hand moved automatically, following along as he spoke. With her head against his chest, she could feel the words rumbling as he read to her. Glancing up at his face, she thought how nice it would be if, years from now, they could lay like this is in a warm bed whilst he read to her in a sure, certain voice. She thought, in a horrible instant, how desperately she wanted to stay with him. Not just for the next three weeks, but for a lifetime. Abruptly, she was sickened that she could have wished such a fate upon him. The quill paused on the page as she gazed at him, her brow furrowing.

He looked down at her, head tilting inquisitively to the side. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, her hair rustling against his clothes. Sitting upright, she said, “You did really well tonight, but my voice is getting hoarse. Can we… keep going tomorrow?”

Fenris nodded slowly, watching her expression carefully. “As you wish.”

Shakily, she smiled. “Thank you, Fenris. And I mean it—you were amazing.”

He rose as she did, helping her gather together the supplies. As they strode back towards the tents, the glowing sphere of light trailed after them. At the mouth of her tent, once she had stashed the things inside, Hawke waved her hand and the orb fizzled and shrank down to nothingness. Their eyes unadjusted to the darkness, they were both blind to one another’s expressions. “Goodnight, Fenris,” she whispered, her voice indeed sounding strained.

“Goodnight, Hawke,” he replied. They stood for a moment, him before her as if he were hesitant to leave just then. Taking a deep, rattling breath, she dove into her tent, burying her face in the soft furs until she heard his footsteps walking away into the night. For a long moment, she wondered if she ought to try to cry in an effort to rid herself of this excess of emotion. But then, as there was the rustling of someone just outside her tent, she decided against it and calmed herself with methodical breathing before lifting her head.

She was more than a little surprised to see Sebastian silhouetted against the gray night. “Sebastian? Are you quite sure that it’s appropriate to be visiting a lady’s tent in the black of night? What will the others say?”

“Very little, I’d expect. Merrill and Varric are still beside the fire and Fenris has gone off to his shelter. I thought now was as good a time as any to speak with you.”

Sitting up, she hugged her legs to her chest. “Well, that's mighty ominous. What can a prince have to say to a lowly mage at this late hour?”

“I know it does not come easily to you, Hawke, but if you could at least endeavor to remain serious, then this awkward business can be put behind us all the faster.”

“Oh, fine, spoil my fun. What is this ‘awkward business’ you’ve told me so much about?”

She heard him sigh as he settled to the ground, folding his legs and leaning slightly into her tent. “I’ve no wish to overstep my bounds, Hawke, nor do I wish to try your patience… but I’d like to speak with you about Fenris.” She let the silence pulse between him until, giving up on receiving a response, he went on. “You’ve treated him kindly, which I have been delighted to see, but lately I’ve been observing some shifts in his behavior and yours that leave me feeling somewhat concerned.”

“What are you talking about, Sebastian?” she said flatly, glowering at him through the darkness.

Still, in spite of the hostility he heard in her tone, Sebastian willed himself to continue. “He’s becoming attached to you, Hawke. And, lest you suspect me of harbouring some jealousy in the matter, I will assure you that that is by no means the driving force in my coming here tonight. I come to you as a friend, Hawke. And I am concerned for the both of you.”

She closed her eyes, gulping back the lump that was rising in her throat. Finally, her voice low and infused with resignation, she asked, “So what would have me do, Sebastian?”

“It is ill-advised to foster a relationship with him that is so firmly grounded in deceit.” He kept his voice low and scarcely audible even to her as he said, “I admire all you’ve done to make amends for the past, but you cannot fully atone without offering your contrition to the one you have wronged. Allowing him to develop sincere feelings for you, and even going so far as to encourage those feelings, is only going to make the time of confession more difficult.”

“I’m going to tell him,” she sighed, falling back into the furs and letting her muscles go limp. “When we get back to Kirkwall, I’m going to tell him.”

He shook his head sadly. “I don’t believe you will, Hawke.”

She lifted one of her arms, covering her eyes with her forearm. “I know what I’m doing, Sebastian. I am fully and excruciatingly aware of exactly how wretched this situation is. There is nothing I would love more than to be cold enough to put distance between us. I know what I have to do, Sebastian, and, when the time comes, it’s going to take all the strength I have to tell him. And it will kill me, one way or another, but I will do it. Believe me or not—I really don’t have enough left in me to care what you think.”

There was something of both relief and disappoint in his sigh. “Very well, Hawke. Sleep well.” She heard him rise and the sound of his boots as he walked away. Shaking even as she pulled furs over her body, Hawke knew that he was right. She knew it and she had known it. She’d determined to stay away from Fenris and she’d failed; she’d convinced herself that she felt only friendly affection for him and she’d been wrong; she’d told herself a hundred times that she’d tell him the truth once they reached Kirkwall… she wouldn’t let herself be wrong in that too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Poor Sebastian hasn’t had lines in ages. I’ve mentioned him, but I realized he hasn’t said, like, anything in about a hundred pages. So I decided to give everyone a little moment of dialogue this time around.
> 
> B) Varric made some adjustments to the story Anders told him about the Warden. It took me a minute to get a concept of Diarmuid in my head because I haven’t ever gotten through a playthrough with a male Warden (I get so frustrated when I can’t flirt with Alistair). It’s odd that I bothered thinking about it at all, but I figured I might as well in case I want to use him again. Diarmuid is the name of one of my favorite men from Celtic mythology. If you haven’t read the story of Diarmuid and Grainne, give it a try. (It’s pronounced sort of like “Deer-mud”. It's tricky, I know. Inscrutable pronunciation is part of the fun.)
> 
> C) I have limited experience teaching people how to read and I do not envy Hawke her task. She’s sort of doing it wrong, but I don’t imagine that she has read a lot of studies on education. I think the first rule of teaching is to not be weird and pervy with your students. 
> 
> D) In my opinion, Fenris would be a fast learner. If you listen to the way he speaks and the sort of information that he has in his brain, he’s clearly very smart. I mean, he knows Tevene, the King’s Tongue, and Qunlat. And he can’t even read. All the information he has gathered has just been from what he’s overheard and passing conversation. This is a guy who is tremendously natively intelligent. So I’d imagine, even though Hawke is a pretty crappy teacher, he still learns quickly and eagerly. Fenris is also clearly an introvert. When teaching introverts, you are meant to teach them new things in private because they’re very easily embarrassed in front of groups. So these lessons gave me a great chance to isolate Fenris and Hawke from the others. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha.
> 
> E) Sorry this one's a little slow; I had to set some stuff up for later. See you soon with another update.


	17. The Way We Were

> “Sugar, who were you thinking of?  
>  You woke me with your breathing.  
>  Honey, how am I supposed to tell?  
>  If I were a spy in the world inside your head  
>  Would I be your wife in a better life you led?”  
>  -“Bitters and Absolut”, The National

_I’ve been here before._

This chair—this dilapidated chair with worn upholstery and stuffing bursting from the corner where a mouse had gnawed it away—was not large enough for the both of them. He sat with a cumbersome volume opened on his lap while she perched on the armrest, peering over him. It was a warm night and he’d complained, when they’d first adopted this position, that the heat of her body was akin to the fires of a high dragon and equally unpleasant. She’d laughed, rising from the chair and walking to the window. When she opened it, she’d leaned out, her leather trousers hugging tightly over her hips as she did so. The summer air had made her hair tremble, ruffling it so that, when she turned back to him, it fell chaotically over her shoulders. “ _Happy now?_ ” she’d asked, slinking back towards him and sitting once more at his side, her body looming over his in a manner that seemed purposefully oppressive. Her chest was beside his cheek as she leaned forward, tapping the surface of the page. He hadn’t wanted to look at the way her breasts spilled slightly over the top of her blouse, but he sensed that she wanted him to look. To remind him. To mock him. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the page without speaking. “ _Well? Are you going to keep me in suspense all night or are you going to keep reading?_ ”

“ _This is a waste of time_ ,” he hissed, snapping the book shut with a clap that echoed throughout the room. “ _It’s too dark in here to read anyway. Get out._ ”

She laughed, the trilling sound grating at his ears and sending thrills across his skin. “ _It’s cute that you think you can order me around_.” Her hand appeared under his chin; he felt the heat of her magic building against his skin. Not enough to burn or even to cause pain, but just enough warmth to remind him that, if she chose to, she could engulf him in her scorching heat. He felt something within the pit of his stomach clench as he tilted his head back, glaring at her. She smirked and, with one deft motion, hurled a fireball onto the flames that had been waning on the hearth. “ _There you are. You have only ask for light, and light you shall have._ ”

“ _You lack even fundamental self-control, don’t you_?” he snarled, his lip curling.

Smiling smugly, she lifted her hand. A strand of bright, dancing electricity flashed between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, vibrating like the plucked string of a lute. She stared at the light, her eyes glinting. He watched her expression, transfixed. “ _I think you’d find, if you ever gave me the chance, Fenris, that I have extraordinary control over every part of myself_.” Her eyes darted suddenly to his face, her expression instantly becoming serious. Sighing, she leaned over him and opened the book. “ _Now keep going. Seriously, Fenris, you were doing really well. There’s no need to be so huffy with me. I’m only trying to help and you’ve been cross with me all night._ ”

He sneered. “ _I don’t like you hovering over me, laughing at the idiot slave._ ”

Rolling her eyes extravagantly, she groaned. “ _You’re neither an idiot nor a slave, Fenris. Now, come on. I haven’t read this book and I want to know what happens._ ”

“ _It’s the Chant of Light. Nothing happens_.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “ _Well, regardless._ ”

_What were the words?_ His voice, though it spoke the words as they appeared on the page, seemed without sense as he heard its echo within his memory. How could he be expected to read or make sense of anything when she rested her hand on his shoulder? He knew the memory was distorted; knew that there was no way that the light weight of her hand against him could have sent pulsing reverberations throughout his body. Knew that there was no way that the firelight could make her glow as if her skin, her hair, her eyes, were made of pure, consuming light. It had not been that way. But it had seemed that way.

“ _Contrary. It’s pronounced con-trary._ ”

“ _Contrary, then,_ ” he amended. Then, looking up at her face as she floated above him, he added, “ _You needn’t stay, Hawke. This must be very tiresome for you._ ”

She leaned back; he felt the distance between them as if the air were rushing from the room. “ _What else would I be doing?_ ” she said carelessly. “ _Putter around my big, empty mansion by myself? I’d rather be here._ ” Then, surveying the room with visible disgust, she added, “ _Even if it is filthy._ ”

“ _Your mansion is not empty. Unless you’ve finally had the mental clarity to cast that abomination from your presence._ ” He felt hatred swelling suddenly and cataclysmically within his breast. Towards the possessed mage. Towards her. Towards himself for not jerking away from the foul, tainted hand that still rested on his shoulder.

Laughter. Like knives. Mages, always laughing at nothing and everything. “ _Oh, Anders! I quite forgot that he was there. Do you think he’ll be angry that I’ve spent all evening with his nemesis instead of helping him draft his manifesto?_ ”

“ _Is he still working on that?_ ” he heard himself spit bitterly. “ _Surely he’s rambled on long enough._ ”

“ _Apparently he hasn’t. Perhaps that explains why I’d rather stay here, eh?_ ” It explained nothing. Her actions never matched her words and, when they did, her expressions offered another source of contradiction. Everything was without substance. Everything except for the hand that remained against the thin fabric of his shirt.

“ _If you had any sense in your skull, you’d leave him._ ”

“ _I would, but all that writing has given him such wonderfully dexterous fingers._ ” She wriggled her index and middle fingers against his shoulder luridly. He looked away, though he felt the thrum acutely even after me movements stopped. Something was beginning to pulse at the edges of his consciousness, the memory fracturing slightly at the edges.

“ _That seems an insufficient reason to keep the company of a dangerous abomination._ ” His voice was growing further away.

Hawke—or the image of her—was wavering slightly. “ _Does it? I suppose I’m not surprised that you’re not a very sensual being. If you were, then you wouldn’t be mired in this trench of celibacy that you’ve dug for yourself. You know, a good, rough fuck couldn’t hurt, Fenris._ ” That rearing anger, snarling forward, making the memory flash with red sparks.

“ _Not all of us have your cavalier attitude towards intimacy of that kind, Hawke. Perhaps you would be less indiscriminant in your affections if you’d had lyrium branded into your flesh thereby making each casual interaction send searing pain throughout your body. Speaking of which, it would be entirely welcome if you’d take your filthy hands off of me._ ”

Her hand was gone. She was gone. All at once she vanished from his memory. The flashing lights exploded, blooming and consuming the room. He felt himself dissolving into the light and then re-forming in darkness. A darkness populated by only himself and an apparition dressed in Hawke’s bare skin. This was no memory now, but a wish. “ _Where did you go?_ ” Her voice echoed through the empty landscape of his dream. A dream in which her body glided towards his, her expression soft yet filled with wanting. “ _Stay with me here._ ” Yes. He knew this dream well. The dream in which she haunted him, surrounded him, pressed her body against his, and whispered words he knew she had never said. _Yes. This is better. I like this dream._

When he woke, the dawn had not yet come. Still, as he lifted his head, peering from the tent, the blush of the incipient sunrise had begun to color the sky with its pink glow. Outside, he knew, Hawke and Varric would be awake. She and the dwarf always rose early and, for that reason, Fenris had developed the habit as well. Whenever he emerged in the mornings, Hawke looked towards him as if she had been waiting only for him. Ordinarily, this welcome was something that roused him happily enough. Now, he hesitated, unsure of what to say to her when they spoke. He wondered if perhaps it was best not to tell her about the memory that had broken through during the night. Had that been her? Nothing, in her actions or her tone or his feeling towards her, resembled the Hawke he knew. Still, it was her face and her voice and he knew well enough that it had indeed been her. He didn’t want to tell her; not when there was such easiness between them now.

But, whether he told her or not, he could not keep putting off rising. He dressed and left his shelter. She sat on a log beside the firepit and she sat without the dwarf at her side. Hearing his movements as he approached, Hawke glanced up at Fenris and smiled. “You’re awake! How did you sleep?” She patted the space on the log beside her indicating that he should take a seat. He did so, slouching forward and pressing his hands between his knees.

“I slept… well enough,” he murmured.

She furrowed her brow. “You seem a little tired. Are you sure you slept alright?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine, Hawke. Where’s the dwarf?”

“He went off to catch some game. We’re going to need a hearty breakfast if we’re going to make decent progress today.”

He turned his eyes towards the ashes of the fire that had burned through the night. “So we can get back to Kirkwall.” he said, his voice flat and, though he tried to keep it free of emotion, decidedly downtrodden.

Hawke tilted her head, the sheer depth of her confusion showing on her face. “Well, yes, that would sort of be the point.” Shaking her head, she lifted the back of her had to his forehead, peering into his face with evident concern. “Fenris, are you sure that you’re alright? If you’re not feeling well, then we can camp here for the day. I don’t want you to get sick.” She dropped her hand to his arm. “Well, you don’t feel warm.”

“I dreamt of you last night,” he said suddenly.

His voice was low and thoughtful, if a little distant, and yet his words shook Hawke’s body as if he had shouted into her ear. It took all the self-control she could muster to say, somewhat lightly, “Nothing untoward, I hope.” Her voice sounded as if it came from another person and, even with all her effort to control it, it still shook. Her heart was beating so furiously that she feared it might actually burst.

He shook his head, still not looking up at her. She could see his brow drawn, his lips turning downwards at the corners. “It was a memory. It was... not as I expected my memories of you to be.” Glancing sidelong at her, he added, “You’ve said we were not friends and I know I should not be surprised. Yet… I thought we would have been civil at the very least.”

Hawke could barely hear him over the blood that rushed through her ears with every pulse of her frantic heart. “Can I ask what you remembered? It might help me explain things better if I have a few of the specifics.”

Fenris sighed. “We were in my home. As we were last night, you and I were reading together. We shared a chair and you lit the fire when I complained of the darkness. I asked you to leave but you said you did not wish to return to your… Anders. There was nothing remarkable in the events themselves, but there was something in the tone of the conversation that I found… surprising. You were not as you are now. Nor was I.”

She smiled with relief, her muscles still shaking slightly as the flood of adrenaline began to abate. He hadn’t remembered. Of course he hadn’t. If he had, then he would have come out of his tent and torn her still-beating heart from her body instead of sitting at her side. “No. We’re not as we were.”

A short span of silence stretched between them. His eyes were still on her expression, studying her face with eyes that were warm yet holding a lingering thread of distress. He opened his mouth, seeming to consider whether or not he should speak further. Then, turning his eyes to the ground, he said quietly, “I… lied to you.”

“What?” she said gently, unsure what he could be referring to and why, after all the memory must have given rise to, he troubled himself with a lie.

“I told you that the lyrium makes it impossible to be touched. Though the pain lingers, it’s not unpleasant when I’m… touched properly.” He glanced up at her once more and she found herself flushing. “There was a time when I wished you wouldn't touch me, and I cannot imagine how such animosity could have arisen between us.”

Brushing her hair behind her ear, her smile trembled. “I’m glad that it was a lie. I mean, that it’s not unpleasant. And the animosity… it isn’t something I want us to repeat. I’ve tried not to be the person I was then and… and I don’t want to be that way again.”

They could hear Varric approaching, his boots cracking across the twigs and underbrush of the forest. Still, Fenris gazed at her, almost smiling. “There’s no need to repeat the past, Hawke. It’s better this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Quote:  
> “‘Con-trary!’ said a voice as sweet as a bell. ‘That for third time, you dunce! I’m not going to tell you again. Recollect, or I’ll pull your hair!’  
> ‘Contrary, then,’ answered another, in deep but softened tones. ‘And now, kiss me, for minding so well.’  
> ‘No, read it over first correctly, without a single mistake’” (Wuthering Heights).  
> If that is not your favorite scene in which a young, sassy lady teaches a sexy man to read, then I don’t know what to say to you right now. I wanted to reference it because I effing love that book.  
> B) Sorry that this one's so short. Sigh. The next chapter shall be long-ish to compensate.


	18. Firsts

> “ _I had a lover_  
>  _I don’t think I’d risk another these days_  
>  _These days_  
>  _And if I seem to be afraid to live the life that I have made in song_  
>  _It’s just that I’ve been losing so long._ ”  
> -“These Days”, Nico

The others rose as the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Breakfast was eaten efficiently and with little chatter to disrupt the trilling of birds as their first calls of morning broke through the forest. A chill had swept through the woods that night and the metallic smell that wafted through the cool air promised snow. As they ate, Hawke turned her eyes upwards to the sky and saw that, though it was clear, the breeze was carrying the clouds in their direction. Sitting beside Fenris on the moldering log, she found herself longing to press closer to him. But, in spite of their resolution to leave the unpleasantness of the night’s memory behind, she felt as though a wall had been erected between them. It may have been intangible and insubstantial, but it was a barrier that could not be penetrated. She remained where she was, looking down at her hands and the glossy grease that the meat had left on her fingertips.

She had known that this would happen. Ever since his memories had begun resurfacing in Vol Dorma, she had known that it was only a matter of time before his memories of her broke through. Each night she’d lain awake fearing for the moment when he’d finally see the truth of who she was. Through all those weeks of agonizing, however, she’d always assumed that the first thing he’d remember about her would be the most dramatic. She’d assumed that the first thing that came to him would be what had happened in the Hanged Man when she’d doomed him to return to Danarius. And then, once that came to him, he’d kill her and the matter would be swiftly resolved. Though that prospect had terrified her, this was almost worse. Rather than remembering the worst thing she’d ever done, he’d remembered an incident of her ordinary, everyday atrociousness. He’d remembered the conceit and thoughtlessness that had characterized her for so many years of their acquaintance. What surprised her when she’d first begun recalling that night, was just how humiliated she felt. She remembered the things she had said and the way she had behaved and it brought a very real blush to her cheeks to think that Fenris had seen that person. That she had shown him that person every day for years and never thought to be embarrassed by her own behavior. It was a marvel that, through all the days of her life, nothing had ever made her as ashamed of herself as the look of disappointment in Fenris’ eyes when he had looked at her that morning.

As their party moved forwards, voyaging beyond the foothills and towards a stretch of wooded valley, Hawke was still aware of the awkwardness that stretched between them. All the resolutions in the world would not be enough to firmly place the past behind them. Though Fenris walked at her side as he always did, he said little and, more than once, she noticed him looking at her with that lingering confusion. It was though he was examining her face in a search for some trace of the woman who had found her way into his mind the night before. Hawke felt herself bowing her head, coloring under the scrutiny. It had been a tame memory. Tame in comparison to everything else she had done throughout their acquaintance. As they made their way along the floor of the valley, Hawke found herself rummaging through her own memories, searching for all the things that he would one day find. A list of horrible things she had said echoed through her mind like a litany. He’d see all that again and hear it as though it were new. The past—all those years and all those things that she’d allowed herself to forget—would happen again in his mind as though it were all playing out once more. He’d keep looking at her with that confusion and disappointment and then, one day, he’d look at her with hatred and disgust.

During the past few weeks, she’d allowed herself to believe that she was the person that Fenris thought she was. He had looked at her in a way that made her believe that, at her core, maybe there was some trace of goodness. And, through the coming weeks, she would have to watch as, day by day, his faith in her was chipped away. No amount of promising to leave that behind them could possibly withstand the barrage of memories that would remind him nightly who she really was. And, what was more, she didn’t want his image of her to remain untarnished. The past, she realized, had so powerfully impacted both of their lives that it would be wrong to leave it there. Denying it would be a lie. Denying all she had done would be just another sin on her already infinite list of unforgivable acts. It would be horrible, yes, to lose him suddenly and all at once, but it would be so much worse to watch the slow decay of his respect for her. It would be worse for both of them to try to build a future while the past was breaking through.

Of course, she had never supposed that they would have a future. She’d known all along how this would end and it was only her foolish heart that had ever let her feel as if it might, somehow, turn out well. Idiocy. She had never believed it—not really—but she had felt it.

When the sun was high overhead, the gray covering of clouds drifted over it and snow began to fall lightly over them. The ground grew slick at first as the flakes melted on contact, but it was not long before a veil of white began to cover the valley. Though they walked beneath a canopy of trees limbs, the snow still coated Hawke’s lashes as they trudged onwards. She glanced over at Fenris and saw fat, heavy clumps of snowflakes accumulating on his white hair and dark lashes. He blinked, causing the already melting snow to fall onto his cheeks. It melted there, running like tears down his face. Hawke turned, pulling her cloak tightly around herself for comfort more than warmth.

The day grew darker as the clouds and snowfall thickened. Without the heat of the sun’s rays, the temperature dropped quickly and there was none among them who wasn’t shivering. Though sunset was still hours away, Hawke announced that they should make camp until the snowfall ended. The pronouncement was met with sighs of relief from everyone except for Fenris. He only looked at her and, when she’d returned his gaze, he’d smiled in a way that was puzzling.

They gathered what little dry wood they could find as they searched for somewhere to set up camp. Only under the largest trees was there still fallen wood that had not yet soaked in the moisture of the snow. When they finally came upon a flat expanse of ground that was sheltered by the arcing branches of a cluster of trees, each of them piled what little wood they had managed to gather at the center of the site and then divided off to build their shelters. As was always the case, Varric and Sebastian, and Merrill and Hawke, would be split between two tents while Fenris was alone. The work was faster when split between two people and, having finished erecting her own tent, Hawke excused herself from the others and went to where Fenris was still engaged in the construction of his.

“It looks like we won’t be able to continue your reading lessons tonight,” Hawke said, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree while he continued to drive a spike into the hard, winter ground.

“Oh?” he said, glancing up at her.

She shrugged, trying to read his expression to determine whether he was disappointed that they would not be spending the evening together or whether he was simply disappointed in her. “Well, it’s still snowing and we haven’t exactly got together enough wood to have two separate campfires. I suppose we could gather ‘round the fire with the others, but I wasn’t sure if you’d like to.” Then, almost hopefully, she added, “Would you?”

His eyes still trained on the spike he was working into the ground, he shook his head, “Much though I love the idea of showing off my newfound skillset to the assembled masses of your friends, I don’t flatter myself that my skills are very impressive as of yet. Perhaps it is better to wait until you and I can be alone.”

Hawke smiled, folding her arms over her chest and nodding curtly. “That’s probably for the best; I know how cross Varric gets when he’s not the one telling the story. There’s no need for us to torture him unduly is there?”

Turning his eyes back towards her, he noticed the nervousness in her smile. “No. No need at all,” he replied, rising from the ground as he spoke. He began to approach her, slightly cocking his head to the side. “Is something the matter, Hawke? You’ve been unusually quiet since morning.”

“No, I’m fine,” she choked. “I was just... I think I’m getting a bit of a head cold is all.”

He nodded slowly, staring into her face. He’d come quite near to her, she realized. His head tilted, examining her expression once more. It would be so easy then to close the small gap between them and allow herself one kiss. Just to try it once before she had to say goodbye. Once when there was no threat of death or fear or pain. Just once, to feel his slightly chapped lips against her own and the warmth of his arms around her. She laughed suddenly and he started, as if the sound alarmed him somehow. “I should get some sleep,” she managed to say. “We can’t have me slowing everyone down, can we?”

“I think there’s little danger of that,” he said, his face still enticingly close to her own. “But you should lie down; you’re flushed.”

Hawke lifted a hand to her cheek and pressed her cool fingertips to the warmth of her blush. “You’re right, I am.” Of course she was. Because he had looked at her; because he had been close to her. That was all it took these days to make her heart race. She’d have to leave before she did something stupid or said something that they’d both wind up regretting. Taking her leave tersely, she walked back in the direction of the tent. Merrill expressed some concern that, if Hawke drifted off to sleep then, she would miss supper and wind up starving. “It’s alright, Merrill,” Hawke assured her. “I’ve lost my appetite anyway. Maybe in the morning. But not now.”

She ducked into her tent while the others remained around the fire. As she lay back, burrowing deep into the furs that were strewn throughout the tent, she wondered what Fenris would do while she was away from the others. It was silly to wonder; he was a grown man and could surely find ways of occupying himself without her assistance. But still she wondered. Wondered if he would seek out the others and gather around the warmth of the fire with them or if he would instead follow her lead and spend the evening in isolation. Hawke pulled the blankets over her head, closing her eyes and allowing the darkness to fully envelop her. She couldn’t be near Fenris then. It made her want to be idiotic. It made her ashamed and giddy and guilty and flushed. It made her want to press her body against his and kiss him.

Of course, there was no real danger that she would ever do anything so impulsive. It was the plague of thoughts and desires that wore on her more than the actual fear that she might throw herself at him. She wouldn’t have known how one was supposed to initiate a kiss even if she had wanted to. And she did want to. Not in her mind, which understood the excessive wrongness of such a course of action, but with every other part of herself that ached to be close to him and that would never accept the distance that her mind imposed on her body. Still, she had never initiated a first kiss before. She’d initiated kisses, to be sure, but never taken that first, uncertain plunge. She’d initiated any number of perverse, depraved, and thoroughly enjoyable acts during the years that she had been with Anders, but it had been he who took the first step towards redefining their relationship as something romantic.

They’d been standing in his clinic, as they so often were, and she’d been flirting with him, as she so often did, when he’d stepped towards her and slatted his mouth over hers. For the most part, she’d been surprised by the ferocity of his approach. She was taken aback by the way his tongue thrust into her mouth as he moaned eagerly against her lips. Not that it wasn’t enjoyable. It had only been… surprising. In all her life, she had never imagined that her first kiss would take place in a dank room that reeked of elfroot and lingering blood. Of course, she had never been one to give much thought to the issue of first kisses. Before arriving in Kirkwall, she hadn’t spent much time with anyone outside of the family. Her father had been strict with regards to their social interactions and believed that, as apostates, they should try to create as little impression locally as was possible. Carver had, at times, slunk off into town and had a tumble with some daft girl, but she and Bethany had stayed home and away from potential danger. It wasn’t much of a bother; Hawke had never been the romantic sort and didn’t much see the appeal of having some slack-jawed son of a farmer panting at her heels. And during that first year in Kirkwall, she’d been confined to a tiny shack with her mother, brother, and uncle. There wasn’t much temptation to bring some drooling drunkard back to the narrow bed she’d slept in at Gamlen’s house.

Anders, though, was different from anyone she’d ever met. He was handsome and clever and he was obviously interested in her, but what set him apart from anyone else of her acquaintance was that he was also an apostate. She’d never met, in all her life, someone who understood how greatly impacted her life had been simply because she’d been born a mage. Someone who shared her dreams of freedom and independence and understood fully her resistance to all the forces that pressed in and sought to oppress her. Even Bethany, for all she was a mage, hadn’t craved liberty with that same merciless, unremitting ferocity. Anders had known how she felt without her having to explain a thing. More than that—more than anything they’d had in common or any attraction that there might have been—their fate had been sealed by his persistence. His kiss left her breathless when they had parted and she’d found herself almost at a loss for words. When he said that he’d come to her mansion that night, he spoke with such certainty that it hadn’t even occurred to her to protest.

That night, however, she’d had time to hesitate. When she’d stood at her front door, key in hand, she had been nervous. Her hands had shaken as she returned the bronze key to her pocket without inserting it into the lock. Every passing moment seemed to bring fresh waves of anxiety as she walked up the stairs to her room and lit a fire. He hadn’t given her a fixed timeframe and so, in the hours that passed after sunset, she changed her mind several thousand times.

It wasn’t that she had any sentimental notions of virginity or purity. Yes, her mother had tried to instill those archaic moral codes in her children, but Hawke had always been resistant to anything that seemed to be standing in the way of her making decisions for herself. Furthermore, Anders was, as far as she was concerned, as good a man as any. It had been made abundantly clear to her throughout the years that the list of Anders’ conquests was not a short one, so she expected that it would be enjoyable at least. What irritated her and caused her to hesitate was that, while he would know what he was doing, she’d have very little idea as to what she was meant to do. In theory she knew… but she was not practiced. Hawke had never liked being second-rate at anything and rarely let anyone witness her learning a new skill. Even as a child, she’d insisted that she and Bethany be trained separately so that her mistakes would not be witnessed by her younger sister. For hours, Hawke had practiced spells on her own. The problem with sex was that practicing on one’s own really did not seem to guarantee skill at the actual act itself. She did not like the idea of Anders, or anyone really, seeing her fumble during the first clumsy attempt.

When he came to her, she smiled, trying to seem self-assured and almost brazen. If she acted cool and collected, then perhaps there was a chance that she could get through this without him finding out that he was her first. From what she’d gathered from Carver, men seemed to place an abnormal amount of importance on a woman’s virginity. As if it were some great conquest akin to crossing an uncharted sea or traversing some undiscovered continent. She wasn’t going to let Anders think that he had somehow accomplished something by bedding her. It was her choice and her decision and she hardly wanted him to feel as if he’d had a victory over her. She wouldn’t let him feel pride for leaving the first footprints in fresh snow.

When he’d come to her, she had tried to hide her nervous shaking by folding her arms over her chest. She’d tried to take the lead, clasping his hand and leading him to the bed. Perhaps he thought that she trembled from excitement instead of nerves. But she’d been nervous then. She’d been almost scared as he nestled between her parted legs, his mouth still closed over hers as their breaths came in hot, throaty gasps. Though they were fully clothed, she was aware that he, with short thrusts of his hips, was grinding himself against her. She felt the heat building between her thighs with the contact and, though she could feel herself flooding with arousal, the fear was nevertheless swelling as dramatically as he was. Hawke bucked her hips against him, spurring him onwards. “Strip,” she’d panted against his neck, purposely infusing her voice with desperation.

Hastily, he’d thrown off his clothes while she did the same. As she did when she ran into cold water, she did what she dreaded with as much speed as possible. No man had ever seen her bare before and, though she could tell from Anders’ approving gaze that she had nothing to be ashamed of, there was still an anxiety in this new form of exposure. She crept back on the bed, positioning herself in shadow so he wouldn’t see her blushing. He was smiling, crawling across the mattress with that hard, foreign part of him jutting out from his body. Laying back across her pillows, she stared into his eyes, keeping herself from thinking overmuch about the part of his body that would interlock with her own. She hoped that he would make it quick.

He took his time with her, planting kisses across her breasts while his hand slid between her thighs. “Maker, you’re wet,” he sighed against her skin. She hated him for drawing attention to it, but laughed a bit breathlessly and ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face while she stared fixedly at the canopy that stretched overhead. He gathered moisture on his fingers and, gently, pushed them inside of her. She gasped at the intrusion. She’d explored that same territory before, but never felt the strangeness of another’s hands upon her. Forcing herself to remain steady, she looked at his face. His pupils were dilated so far that his eyes were almost fully encompassed with blackness. “You’re so tight,” he breathed, bringing his lips to hers once more while he felt inside of her.

“Are you going to tease me forever?” she’d whispered against his lips.

He’d chuckled at her eagerness and, with the hand he removed from her, positioned himself. It was when he’d finally pressed inside of her that he drew back from their kiss and stared at her with his brows drawn together and his hips stilled. She was shaking with the effort of holding back the whines of discomfort that were threatening to come out of her. “Is this… your first time?” he’d asked, all the astonishment he felt entering his voice.

An irrepressible whine entered her words as she gasped, “Keep going.” There was water welling at the corners of her eyes and, afraid he’d see it, she turned her head to the side and pressed her cheek against the soft pillows that cushioned her head.

His body remained motionless within her. “I—I feel like I’m taking advantage,” he murmured. “You don’t know any better.”

That drew her gaze back to him and, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she’d scowled up at him with her lower lip thrust into a pout. “That’s so condescending, Anders. I’m a grown woman and I know my own mind. Now, could you hurry up and at least _try_ to make me cum?” Her words had been bold enough to make him laugh and, when she lifted her hips, further impaling herself on him, he’d started to move slowly within her. She turned her head to the side once more, biting the inside of her cheek. When the worst of the pain was over, he’d started to rut almost desperately within her and she’d tried to return the movement as best she could and, when his breaths came short and he began to whisper urgently that he was about to cum, she’d let her own breath come in gasps and, when he cried out, so had she. It hadn’t been real that time, but it had gotten better. It had gotten amazing. But now, as she lay remembering how it had been between them, she wondered if it had ever been honest. She wondered if it had ever been real and if she had ever stopped pretending that she was fearless and brazen and bold. For all the times she had let him inside of her, she had never really let him in.

Pulling the furs around her shoulders and drawing her knees up towards her chest, she wondered if it would be different with Fenris. The idea of behaving with him as she had with Anders was unfathomable. With Fenris, there’d be no leather ties binding him to the headboard, no crude pronouncements or commands. With him, she’d let him see how nervous she was because he’d be nervous too. Letting her hand slip between her legs, Hawke closed her eyes. She remembered what Fenris had said that morning about the lyrium not paining him if he were touched properly. Under her hands, those veins of glowing light would come alive and bathe them both in that brilliant blue glow. She’d treat him with all the gentleness that he deserved and had never been given. He’d gasp with pleasure as she took him inside of her mouth and with slow, gentle movements of her tongue, piqued his arousal. His hands would weave through her hair, guiding her movements while she gave him all he asked for. His lyrium would sing and his head would roll back as he groaned with ecstasy. She felt her excitement mounting; Merrill was still by the fire with the others. There was still time for a little more.

Hawke imagined sitting astride his lap, his arms wrapping her in their warmth as he pulled her closer. They’d rock together, their hearts beating and their breath hot and eager as their eyes met and their bodies joined more completely with each deep thrust of his hips. She’d feel him within her, filling her where she ached for him. Hawke lifted her forearm to her mouth clamping her teeth down fiercely on her flesh as she fought back a cry during those last moments of impossible dreaming.

In the wake, she felt herself near tears, a cold chill passing over her skin. Even in that fevered daydream, there was guilt and the aching knowledge that such at thing was utterly impossible. Between her and Fenris, there would never be honesty and gentleness in the same moment. If ever they shared the kind of tenderness that she imagined, it would be because she had deluded him into believing that she was a person worthy of his love. And if she told the truth—then there would be nothing. If he touched her then, it wouldn’t be sweet or beautiful or kind. It would be in the way she deserved to be touched. It would hurt and she would scream instead of moaning. There would never be anything more between them than there was at that moment and she knew that he could never be made aware of the yearning she felt for him. It would only make things worse. There were many things he needed to know, but that was not among them.

She sat up, furrowing her brow. Quickly, she readjusted her clothing and emerged from her tent. Attempting to appear casual, she approached the others where they sat by the fire. “I couldn’t sleep,” she shrugged as they looked up at her. “Is Fenris still hiding out in his tent?”

Varric nodded. “He’s off brooding as usual. We tried to lure him out with the promise of food, but we should have known that his broodiness can overpower even the deepest of hungers.”

She forced a little laugh. “Well, that’s our Fenris, isn’t it? I think I might take him for a little walk to fill our waterskins. Keep an eye on everything for me, will you?”

“That’ll be good for the boy. The skins are in Sebastian’s satchel.” Varric turned back to the others and asked Merrill to reiterate a question that she had apparently asked him in Hawke’s absence.

When the skins were in her possession, Hawke took several steadying breaths and walked to Fenris’ tent. Rapping her knuckles soundlessly against the canvas, she peered in. He lay on his back with his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed. Initially, Hawke thought that maybe he had fallen asleep, but when she whispered his name, his eyes fluttered open and fixed on her. “Care to take a walk?” she smiled.

He sat upright as he said, “You couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head. “No.” Her smile faded and, after trying and failing to speak three or four times, she finally managed, “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until I talk to you about something. But… I don’t want to do it so near to the others. So I thought maybe we’d just go down to that little brook and… talk?” Fenris crept forward slowly, leaving the tent and rising to his feet no more than six inches in front of her. Hawke looked at the ground, pushing up snow with the tip of her boot. “Just… come with me, okay?” She heard the tremor in her voice and hoped against hope that he wouldn’t ask questions.

“Okay,” he said, his voice low and the curiosity he felt just barely audible in his tone.

She nodded, still looking at the ground. “Good. Let’s go.”

Hawke turned quickly and shuffled away from the camp. Fenris walked a few feet to the side of her and she felt his eyes trailing her every step, though he said nothing. She was grateful, at least, that he wasn’t prying.

The brook that ran through the deepest part of the valley was narrow and shallow. Around its pebbled shore grew saplings that shook slightly in the breeze and the sound of their creaking branches and the babble of the brook was all that could be heard while Fenris and Hawke stood silently at the edge of the treeline. She stood with a larger birch behind her and pressed against its trunk so hard she knew the morning would reveal bruises along her vertebrae. In the dusk they stood, her not wanting to speak and him waiting for the words she was visibly struggling to get out.

Finally, when she did speak, it was in a clear but quiet voice that was strained. Still, she didn’t look up at him. “I’ve liked spending time with you these last months,” she began. “I’ve enjoyed it more than I should have, probably. And I didn’t want to have to talk to you about this so soon…. I didn’t want to say anything that might make you feel uneasy before we got you settled at home.” Her hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly against the fabric of her robes as she spoke. “But you’ve started remembering… and I saw the way you were looking at me today, Fenris, and I saw the way you looked at me this morning. Like I was a person you didn’t recognize. Like you thought less of me. And… and I’m embarrassed about what I’ve done. I haven’t been a good person and I haven’t been kind or thoughtful. I’ve done so many things that I regret and you’re going to remember all of those things. And I don’t think that I can watch as you keep being confused and disappointed by what you remember of me. So… until you remember everything… I don’t think that it’s fair for us to have a relationship that’s only going to make things more confusing for you. I think it might be best to put some distance between us. At least until you remember who I am.”

“Hawke,” he began, his voice slow and deliberate, “I know who you are. What troubled me about my memory of you was not that you seemed to be other than what you are now, but that you seemed beyond my reach. I’ve feared—I still fear—that you’ll grow tired of me when you return to your home. To your old life.” He shifted, staring off towards the horizon where the sun was beginning to set behing the trees. “You’ll wish to part from me then,” he added bitterly.

Hawke looked up at him, her eyes melancholy but resigned. “It’s not a matter of what I wish, it’s a matter of what’s fair to you. I’m not proud of the person I was, Fenris, but no amount of feeling guilty or of trying to change can ever erase the things I’ve done.”

Looking back to her, he let out a mirthless laugh. “And so you separate from me so soon? I thought you’d at least wait until there were better options before you.”

She let out an indignant sigh. “That’s not what this is, Fenris. I don’t want to be anywhere else and, if I acted solely based on what I want, then I’d spend every minute with you. But it’s not fair for me to do that. It’s not fair for me to want that.”

He raised a brow and his eyes bored into hers. “I see,” he said flatly. “So you would deprive me of my choice in the matter?”

Petulantly, she stomped her foot against the ground as she straightened her back and stepped away from the body of the tree. “How can you make a real choice, Fenris? You don’t even know who I am!”

If he hadn’t heard the shaking in her voice or seen the desperation in her eyes, he might have left her then. But he saw the distress that speaking this way caused her and his frustration abated. He took a step forward, placing his hand against her cheek and, with the tips of his fingers lightly curled beneath her chin, ensured that she would not look down at the ground just then. “I know who you are, Hawke,” he murmured. He meant to go on holding her eye contact, but it was too much then. He glanced downwards and off to the side as he added, “And I can’t stop thinking about you.” It took all he had to lift his eyes back towards her face. Her lips had parted slightly and her wide eyes were filled with a softness that made him bold. Lightly, he ran his thumb across her cheekbone. She lifted one of her hands, cupping it on top of his.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” she whispered. 

She looked into his eyes then and saw them overwhelmed with happiness that she never would have thought she’d be able to give to him. His hand was so gentle against her cheek and as he ran his fingers back and settled them amongst the loose waves of hair at the back of her head. His other hand tentatively found its way to her hip, pulling her the last step forward so that his body was against hers. The lean, flat muscles of his body were apparent even through his clothes and, in the cold night of winter, she felt scalded by his warmth as he held her to him. For a moment they stood in this manner and then, ever so slowly his mouth came towards hers. Her lips parted as she watched his tongue emerge slightly from his mouth, running quickly across his upper lip and then disappearing back into his mouth. Her heart was thundering then, her whole body screaming out in anticiapation of contact. But, when his lips were a breath away from hers, he stopped his progress. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she stared at her own reflection in the green depths of his eyes. “Should I stop?” he asked, his question barely more than an exhalation.

She hadn’t been able to speak then. Forming words and forming thoughts seemed something she must have done in another life. In that moment, all she knew how to do was nod in assent. When he closed that last, infinitesimal amount of space between them, she was sure she felt him smiling against her lips. They were soft and faintly wet from where he had run his tongue across them. Sighing against his kiss, she parted her lips and lightly pressed the tip of her tongue against his lower lip. He returned the gesture, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue over her own. His mouth was so warm and unbelievably sweet. Lifting her arms over his shoulders, she clung to him and, with a hand on the nape of his neck, pulled him deeper into the kiss.

It was easy, then, to lose consciousness of which of them spurred the contact forward. Their long-suppressed desire urged both of them forward and each passing moment brought a greater yearning. His hand on her hip ventured lower, pulling her body firmly against his own. She ground against him, moaning eagerly and drawing a similar sound roughly from his throat. The tension between their bodies as each sought closer contact drove her stumbling backwards until she was pressed once more with her back against the tree. His thigh pressed between her legs. Hawke rocked slightly against him, and, finding her robe in the way, she reached down and yanked up the skirts so that they no longer got in the way of their movements together. They were short of breath, rising for a moment to pant. But even that momentary span of time away from her was too much and he moved in once more, breathing heavily against her neck as he planted kisses down her throat. He might have moved lower, past her clavicle, but her damnable robes protected her breasts from his lips. Still, he lifted a hand to stroke across the curves that were hidden from his view as his lips found hers once more. In response, she moaned, undulating against him as their hips pressed together and his leg created friction between her thighs. His hands moved over her body almost frantically, exploring her with a mounting sense of urgency. She felt the source of that urgency hardening and pressing against her. The feel of him awoke a quickening sensation in the depths of her body. She lowered her hand, feeling his length through his trousers. The hungry moan that her action wrought was enough to spur her forward, teasing him until, breathless and driven almost to the point of madness, he pulled back from the kiss just enough to say, “I want you.”

If his voice had only been rough and ragged and full of aching desire, she would have wrapped her legs around his waist and let him inside while the force of their rutting slammed her body against that tree. But there was something else in his tone. Something of wonderment and awe. And she knew the source of that wonder. This would be the first time he would have someone of his own choosing. This would be the first time he wanted it. And it would be a lie. It would be based on the same rotting foundation as every other time he’d been touched. In the years that followed, he’d remember joining with her—and, worse still, wanting it—and it would torture him. Shaking in the circle of his arms, Hawke lifted her hands to his chest and pushed him away with only the slightest pressure. Though the pressure was light, he responded to it immediately, loosening his grip on her and pulling back to watch her expression. “No. I can’t do this,” she murmured, her voice trembling so badly that it sounded as if she were already in tears. “I—I feel like I’m taking advantage.” Frantically, she adjusted her skirts so that her legs were covered once more. Her shaking was getting worse. Though it felt like her legs could barely support her as they quivered so terribly, she managed to run into the woods, carrying herself swiftly towards camp with all the strength she had.

She didn’t need to run; he wasn’t going to chase her. He stood, leaning back against the tree, and staring after her as the last light of evening faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Originally, that whole masturbation scene was going to be A LOT longer. But my roommate and I were getting coffee Friday afternoon and I was sort of mentally writing it in my head when he was all, “What are you thinking about? You haven’t said anything in, like, five minutes and I’m getting lonely over here.” So I naturally told him I was thinking about masturbation. After a long discourse on what drives people to masturbate and what the mental/emotional state is during masturbation, we eventually landed on, “Well, I’m bored and there’s nothing to do. Oh, hey! There’s my hand.” Or tension release. So, while I was originally going to have a pretty lengthy Fenris fantasy here, it ultimately didn’t make sense. After all, Merrill could turn up in the tent at any moment.
> 
> B) Sorry to bring up Anders… again. This is a Fen/Hawke fic and there’s been more Anders sex than Fenris. But sometimes I like to mention Hawke’s inexperience when it comes to relationships. To me, it justifies a little bit why she is such a dingbat when it comes to negotiating how she feels about Fenris. And what better way to talk about inexperience than with a virginity story?
> 
> C) I have literally no opinion about virginity. My general feeling about sex is that there are a lot of valid ways to express your sexuality and, as long as no one’s rights are being violated and consent is in place and not coerced, then there’s pretty much no wrong way to do it. Sometimes that means having a lot of sex, some sex, or no sex at all. The views I expressed here seemed the most… Hawke-like. To me at least.


	19. The Right Time

> “ _I’ve never felt this way before._  
>  _Am I running away from what I’ve always been running towards?_  
>  _Belief, believe in me, ‘cause I don’t know_  
>  _If Reason’s ever gonna see why love_  
>  _Would come to die,_  
>  _To leave._ ”  
>  -“Ten Dead Dogs”, Wild Sweet Orange

Returning to camp was worse than he had expected. He’d hoped that, if he lingered long enough in the woods, then everyone would be asleep by the time he shuffled back to their clearing. It seemed, however, that he was not that lucky. While he neared the campsite, Fenris could hear the hushed whispers of conversation. He closed his eyes, sighing heavily and steeling himself for what he knew was soon to come. The moment he walked into sight of Varric, Sebastian and, Merrill, all of whom were clustered around the fire very near to one another, their eyes lifted and fixed on him. From their sudden silence, it was obvious enough that they had been talking about Hawke and, all too likely, him as well. Mercifully, they asked no questions of him. It occurred to Fenris, as he slunk off to his own tent and hid himself within, that Hawke had probably already received the brunt of their inquiries. Huddling beneath his furs, Fenris wondered what she had told them. He hoped that she had simply told them to piss off; the idea that those three had a better understanding of what had just happened than he did was infuriating.

Of course, that was probably the case. Even if Hawke had answered none of their questions, they still had years of knowledge and information that Fenris was lacking. The clever thing to do would have been to ask Hawke what she was going on about when she’d alluded to her past misdeeds. He might have if he hadn’t assumed that it was all just pretext to keep him from becoming overly attached to her. He’d assumed, as they stood in the woods together, that she’d begun to consider just how inconvenient it would be to be linked to him when she returned to her home. After all, she was clearly a woman of some importance and wealth; she had had enough prominence to be invited to Minrathous by Danarius at least and, at times, Varric called her Champion. And what was he? A former slave with nothing to offer her. He didn’t imagine that she was superficial enough to truly discount him over something like that… but there were times when he had thought that maybe that played into her misgivings. She’d seen him at his worst—seen all that had been done to him and seen him degraded and used—and it seemed impossible that she could completely overlook that part of his past. Surely, when she looked at him, the scene she’d beheld that night in Minrathous played some small part in her appraisal of him. Still, she claimed that it was not something that he had done or that had been done to him. She claimed that it was something about her that prevented them from being together. Something about her that he’d remember soon enough.

If he really wanted to know what it was that was holding her back, he could ask her. Nothing could be so bad that she needed to guard it so desperately. After all, he had shared his regrets with her. He’d told her what had happened with the Fog Warriors—of the slaughter and of his blind, unquestioning obedience. She knew the worst of him and yet she still feared to show him the darkness that lurked within her. He was beginning to dread the moment that time would shed light on the shadowy recesses of her character that she kept so well hidden. That night, lying in the shelter of his tent, he tortured himself with speculation. She did not keep slaves, he knew that much. He could not believe that she could torture or rape or that she could kill without purpose. The only thing that seemed possible was that she might practice blood magic. The more he considered it, the more possible it seemed. For one thing, she associated with a known blood mage and had never, to his knowledge, remonstrated Merrill for her involvement with a demon. For another thing, Danarius had trusted Hawke at least for a time. He had considered her a promising young mage and, if she were not at least accepting of demons, then it was difficult to believe that a magister would have seen anything potential in her. There was also the matter of the abomination who had been her lover back in Kirkwall. Though Varric had said some nonsense about a spirit being different from a demon, the fact remained that Hawke had been with a man who’d taken a foreign essence within himself. It was hardly a leap to suppose that she too would do something of this kind.

He could understand why she’d be hesitant to share this with him after what she’d seen in Minrathous and what she knew of his hatred for blood magic. Closing his eyes, Fenris wondered how he would react to such a revelation if his suspicions proved to be true. Would he dismiss her, as she seemed to fear? The thought that he’d allow her to utterly vanish from his life seemed impossible… but, then, it also seemed impossible that he’d allow himself to be taken under by yet another corrupted mage. He wondered if there was a remote possibility for a blood mage to abandon the use of such magic. From what he’d seen, once they got a taste of that sort of power, they never did stop reaching for it in times of desperation. Still, whatever she’d resorted to seemed to fill her with regret and shame. With enough regret, perhaps it was possible to change. But he doubted that. Still, the idea of going for the rest of his life without her seemed impossible. If she was a blood mage, then she was unlike any blood mage he’d ever known. He felt inextricably drawn to her. However, she’d made it clear enough that she could live without him. He’d offered himself to her and she’d fled. To have his desire met with rejection was something he’d never experienced before. Of course, he’d never known that sort of desire before. The yearning to hold a person and to fully express the wanting he felt welling within him. He’d wanted to fill her completely, possessing her and marking her as his own. He’d been overwhelmed by that wanting and yet she had run. The ache of her rejection and the confusion as to what had driven her away occupied his mind more than the curiosity as to what her past held.

Of course he dreamt of her that night; there was nothing that unconsciousness could do to free him from his thoughts of her. There was nothing illuminating in his memories, however. He remembered a dark, musty barroom and the taste of foul ale lingering on his tongue. Someone—the dwarf, was it?—murmuring something in his ear while his own attention was focused on Hawke. Across the room, in a dark corner, she was straddling the lap of a man he now knew must be Anders. Her eyes were open and looking over her mage’s shoulders. She met Fenris’ eye and tilted her head to the side while her lover kissed her neck. She smiled at Fenris and he’d looked away. He’d woken then, jealously swelling within his chest irrationally. He hated remembering her that way. He hated remembering a Hawke that was always smiling in that mocking, conceited way. A Hawke who would never have looked at him with warmth or affection. A woman who never would have let him hold her, if only for a moment. They seemed like two utterly separate entities and it seemed cruel for that past creature to go parading around in the skin of the woman he now knew. The woman he… admired.

Fenris forced himself back to sleep, trying and failing not to think of anything as he stared at the backs of his eyelids. When he woke, he had dreamed of nothing else and at least that was a small mercy. Still, he felt more exhausted than he had in ages. His body still ached from unfulfilled urges. He shifted against the ground, wanting release and yet knowing that this was hardly the time for that. Through the canvas of his tent, he could see that the sun had risen. She would be awake now. He didn’t want to see her and yet it was all he wanted. His willpower won out in the end and he was able to force himself to stay within his tent until he heard the activity of the others that let him know that it would not be just him and Hawke without anyone to serve as interference.

When he emerged from his tent, he saw her already taking down her tent. Though her body stiffened as if she were aware of him, she didn’t look in his direction. He looked away from her quickly, beginning to take down his tent as well. As he did so, he felt that the others—Varric and Merrill at least—were glancing covertly in his direction occasionally. He scowled, not looking up to meet their stares, and wished that he could justify ripping their eyes from their sockets. Of course, there was no cause for that. Even if they were exhibiting curiosity about a situation that had nothing to do with them.

Though they stared, no one seemed overly talkative that morning. When they resumed their journey southwards, an awkward pall had been cast over their entire party. Hawke walked well to the lead of their band and, for the first time since they’d left Minrathous, Fenris let himself drop to the rear. Sebastian was several feet ahead of Fenris and seemed unusually fixated with staring at the ground. Varric, who had moved forward to walk closer to Hawke than was his custom, would sometimes offer some inane comment that seemed intended to break the silence. Hawke, even when questions were directed to her, seemed as if she did not hear them and kept moving briskly forwards. The only time that she seemed to take the least bit of notice of anything was when Merrill had gasped and exclaimed, “Creators, Hawke! You’ve got terrible little bruises all across the side of your neck. Did a spider or some awful creature get into our tent last night?” Merrill began to feel at the side of her own neck. “It didn’t get to me too, did it?”

Fenris heard Varric snort with suppressed laughter. “I think whatever got to Hawke was a little bigger than a spider, Daisy.”

“Really?” gasped Merrill. “Like a snake?”

“Just drop it, would you?” snapped Hawke, pulling up her cloak around her neck and rushing forward at an accelerated pace.

Merrill looked over at Varric, shrugging her shoulders as if to indicate that she was unsure what she had done to provoke Hawke. Varric shook his head, offering no further explanation as to why Hawke’s neck was mysteriously bruised.

Fenris remembered Hawke’s low moans as he kissed her neck, his hands running across the exposed skin of her thigh, his body pressed against hers as she undulated against him. She’d wanted him then; everything from the movements of her lithe body to her hungry gasps of arousal had alerted him to the fact that she desired him. Before that night, there were times when he had remembered how beautiful she’d looked when she had been stripped bare while they were both subject to Danarius’ control in Minrathous. He’d remembered how she’d responded to him when he’d been allowed to slide his fingers inside of her. The memory caused him to squirm with regret and it pained him that that had been the first time he’d touched her. Still, he’d thought how much sweeter it might be between them if they both hungered for one another and were allowed to pursue that hunger. Last night, at least for a time, she had wanted him as desperately as he’d wanted her. But only for a time. All that remained as a reminder of their fleeting intimacy were the marks he’d left on her skin. Her flesh, at least, was less fickle than her heart.

Hawke could have cleared those bruises from her skin that morning when she’d seen them reflected in the mirror-like surface of the stream. She’d bent over the water, washing her face and then she’d caught sight of the trail of dark bruises that had been left the night before. Lifting her hand, she had lightly pressed her fingertips to the places where Fenris’ mouth had marked her. She’d felt her chest ache and a painful wrenching in her stomach that almost felt like nausea. She wondered if it were possible to actually vomit from sadness. Last night she’d come so close to doing something truly unforgivable. She’d come so close to letting her emotions get the better of her. It was a mercy that she had come to her senses before it went too far. Sense told her that she should heal those little bruises and erase the evidence of what had passed. These marks, however, were all she would have of that night. They would fade, as would everything else, and there was no harm in letting herself keep this at least for a time. She could have killed Merrill for drawing attention to those few souvenirs that she had allowed herself to keep.

Of course, there was no way that Merrill could have known just how irritating her observation had been. When Hawke had returned to camp the night before, Sebastian had asked her what was wrong. Though she had tried to keep herself steady, her appearance had been enough to give her away immediately. Her hair was chaotic from the fevered grasping of Fenris’ embrace and her cheeks were red from the effort of fighting back tears. She could understand the alarm of the others when they looked at her then; she must have looked a fright. Still, she hadn’t been able to explain. Her voice was close to breaking and all she’d been able to get out was that she and Fenris had argued and that it was none of their business anyway. She’d disappeared into her tent before they could ask any further questions and, though Sebastian and Varric might have guessed that there was more to the story than she was letting on, it simply wasn’t in Merrill’s nature to speculate wildly as to what had passed between Fenris and Hawke while they were alone together in the darkness. Still, her little comment on the love bites did nothing to soothe the awkwardness of their journey.

Aside from the general discomfort of travelling in silence, the day itself was actually quite pleasant. The snowfall of the previous day had been followed by a clear blue sky and bright sunshine that was making the icy snow wet and sludgy. The sludge caused their boots to slide slightly across the uneven terrain, but the warmth of the light was a nice enough boon to compensate for that disturbance. As evening drew near, the rivers that ran throughout these hills had begun to overflow with the melting snow. Huge, wet snowdrifts fell down from the branches of the trees and, as they began to make camp and settle down for the night, more than one in their party was struck by a sopping heap of falling snow. Gathered around the campfire that night, those who had been pelted by snow sighed happily as the warmth of the fire began to dry out their moistened apparel. While they were gathering together, however, Hawke saw Fenris sneaking off to his tent alone.

She looked after him, considering something for a moment. He was isolated now, which was not what she had wanted but what was, admittedly, the natural conclusion of what she had said and done the night before. After all, he had not bonded with the others and had no reason to seek out their company. She was all he had and, though she could not allow him to continue developing affection for her, there was perhaps a way to coexist without this stifling tension between them. After all, she’d had any number of relationships throughout her life that had been amicable without ever becoming romantic. True, she and Fenris had already tested the boundary of romance and, also true, her idiotic heart and body yearned to push them still further over that boundary, but she had to believe that she possessed at least enough mental clarity to prevent herself from hurling her body onto his.

Almost automatically, her legs carried her after him. He was already within his tent by the time she reached it and she paused outside. “Fenris?” she ventured.

“What?” he growled from inside, sounding as if her mere presence exhausted him.

Clearing her throat, Hawke shifted her weight. “Um, could you come out for a moment. Please? If you wouldn’t mind.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she kept herself from rambling still further.

She could hear him sighing as he crawled from the tent. Hawke stepped back as he emerged and, clasping her hands behind her back, began to fidget uncontrollably with her fingers. “I’m sorry if my actions were… confusing… last night,” she began, smiling as he stared at her blankly. “I realize that I contradicted myself, but… I meant what I said about distance.”

When she managed to get the words out, she could see in his face that her reiteration of these sentiments had not been something he was eager to hear. The irritation and injury flashed across his eyes. “You’ve made that entirely apparent,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of any of the emotions that his expression had betrayed.

Hawke cleared her throat, looking down and trying to remain calm under his gaze. “Yes, well. Just because we shouldn’t spend as much time together as we have, doesn’t mean that there has to be this awful silence. We can still talk occasionally under normal, casual circumstances. For one thing, I hate cutting off your reading lessons simply because of the… awkwardness that may have arisen between us. You’ve made a lot of progress and I’d hate to see that go to waste just because of me.”

Looking up, she saw that his eyes had grown dark and that he was almost glowering at her. It was an expression that she had seen often on his face, but not for a long while. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that you no longer wish to remain in my company and I will not have your pity forcing us into some half-hearted bond.”

She folded her arms over her chest and said gently, “Fenris, I don’t want something as silly as my… feelings or your pride to get in the way of your lessons. Don’t let your anger with me prevent you from doing something that’s in your best interest.”

He looked surprised by the softness with which she spoke. However, in a heartbeat, his expression took on the wounded aspect that had been adorning his features during this increasingly uncomfortable exchange. “Well, perhaps these memories of mine that you’re so reluctant to see me retrieve will bear all the secrets of the written word in addition to whatever it is that you’ve been so pointedly keeping from me.”

“Fenris…” she began without knowing how she’d end that sentence if he let her continue.

He did not. “Go back to your friends, Hawke,” he sighed, sounding drained and weary. “I have no desire to linger in the company of a woman who only wishes to be rid of me.”

Before she could find any words to stammer, he had ducked inside his tent and she was left standing as motionless as if her legs had been made of stone. She could hear the rustling of his bedding as he burrowed beneath it and, judging from the sound, proceeded to slam his fist repeatedly against the ground. Sighing, Hawke turned and walked away slowly, her eyes feeling hot. This was good, she tried to remind herself. If he was mad at her, then there was no chance that she’d do something foolish. Something foolish like asking him to spend the nights reading with her as they had before. She shook her head. No matter how she tried to justify it to herself, that had been no more than an attempt to keep him with her. Only after he’d rejected her had she realized how desperately she had wanted those brief spans of time in his company. It was fortunate, then, that he hadn’t allowed her that much. Maybe she could ask Varric to continue reading with Fenris. Yes. She should have done that to begin with. That would at least safeguard her from the temptation to continue her record-breaking streak of stupidity.

In the coming days, she managed to prevent herself from further muddying the waters. As they drew closer to the Vimmark Mountains, the silence broke down between the others but continued relentlessly between Hawke and Fenris. It was never that indifferent silence which develops when two people no longer care about the existence of the other, but instead the sort of deafening, roaring silence that emerges with too much awareness of the presence of another. As he trailed along well behind her, Hawke felt the empty space beside her as though someone were jabbing her persistently and whispering reminders that he was avoiding her. From where he walked, Fenris was aware of how pointedly she kept herself facing forward. He could still see the bruises on her neck and, though they began to fade as the days wore on, he wondered why she hadn’t just expedited the whole process and healed them herself. Once or twice, however, as they fought onwards through the thickening wilderness, he saw that she lifted her fingertips to her neck and ran them almost unconsciously across the skin he’d marked. When she did so, he felt a thrill inside him so intensely that it was almost as though she was touching him instead of those fleeting reminders of their closeness.

At night, she always retired early instead of spending time with her companions. Fenris suspected that she did so for his comfort as well as to maintain the distance of which she’d spoken. He might have disappeared as well, but, after a few days of silent isolation, Fenris had been pulled from his solitude by Varric and forced to continue the reading lessons that reminded him so achingly of Hawke. Though it was immediately evident that the dwarf was a better teacher than Hawke had been, the lessons seemed hollow now that it was not her hand guiding him through the pages and her voice speaking the words he was unable to discern. Though he had improved to the point of near perfection, the accomplishment, he found, was somewhat dampened by the fact that it was not she who had guided him.

He wished, at times, that he’d consented to letting her continue on as his instructor. The prospect, however, of her remaining at his side out of some feeling of obligation was too much to bear. He didn’t want to be a chore or charity. He wanted her hand on his arm and her breath on his neck as they turned through the pages of that book together; he wanted the closeness that had been before and the promise that it might one day develop into something more. The distance was torture but it was almost better to have her indifference than her pity. Still, as the gaping space between them seemed to widen with each passing day, Fenris began to yearn for even that pale imitation of what had been. Still, he could not bring himself to bridge the divide only to have her shove him away once more. He could not return to her without even a vague recollection of what had caused her to drive him away.

Fenris tried to remember. Tried to conjure whatever foul thing it was that she feared he’d discover. Until that memory returned, however, he could not bring himself to crawl back to her and beg for whatever shred of companionship she was willing to give him. He had not yet come to that level of desperation. Yet, with each night that he failed to regain further memories of her, he found his frustration mounting. There were years, he knew, that were missing from his mind and it could be months or years before he was able to recall what it was that he needed in order to get her to look at him again. The idea of passing all those years in the way that he had this past week—thinking of her constantly and yet forcing himself to show nothing to her that might reveal his weakness—was insufferable. By the time it finally came to him, she might well have disappeared into some dark mansion with her lover and left him behind. His memories of her would be all he had while she vanished back into the life she had known before her compassion had dragged her to the Imperium.

Fenris had considered asking Varric about Hawke. The nightly reading lessons had fostered at least a modicum of friendship between them and Fenris had little doubt that the nosey dwarf would have some insight into the situation. After all, he did seem to have an unhealthy obsession with delving into the personal lives of his comrades. Still, Fenris doubted whether Varric would indulge him with an answer even if he humbled himself enough to ask the question. And so, gnawing at the inside of his cheek, Fenris trudged onwards while frowning pointedly at the back of Hawke’s head and noticing just how aggressively shiny her hair looked that morning. Just as he was beginning to wonder if she’d bathed when she went to the waterside the night before, Hawke stopped abruptly and lifted her hand. “Stop,” she said in a low voice. “Did you hear something?” She glanced over her shoulder, her hair catching the light obnoxiously. Fenris looked at the ground, but Varric met Hawke’s eye.

“Didn’t hear a thing, Hawke, aside from the chirping of birds and the sound of my own labored breathing. Speaking of, would you mind slowing the pace for a bit?”

She ignored what he’d said, her eyes narrowing as she stared deeper into the shadows of the forest that stretched around them. “There was definitely something,” she murmured, toying with the large opal ring she wore on her middle finger. “Like a creaking.”

“It’s most likely the wind in the trees, Hawke,” interjected Sebastian, drifting up towards Hawke’s side as he spoke. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself over it.”

She furrowed her brow, shaking her head. “It’s never just the wind in the trees.” Her eyes focused on Sebastian as she shook her head, sighing. “But we can’t stand around all day waiting for something that may or may not attack us.” She dropped her hands to her side and turned away from her companions, cautiously making her way deeper into the forest. “After all, if it wants us, it will find us.”

Hawke allowed no one to speak after that, shooting scowls back at whoever had affronted her by venturing to make a sound. It wasn’t long before Fenris heard a faint but distinct cracking sound. “Well, I heard that,” murmured Varric the next time it happened. It was a low sound that ended quickly and yet lent the woods an eerie quality that they could have all done without. Hawke fell back towards the others and Merrill and Sebastian drew closer to the group. Tightly packed together, they moved on at a brisk pace to which no one voiced any further objections. When the canopy was so thick overhead that the woods was as dark as dusk, the plaintive call of a wolf sounded from somewhere in the distance.

“Oh, I don’t care for this forest,” Merrill whispered, her shoulders tightening as she stepped up towards Hawke’s side.

“Keep moving,” ordered Hawke. “There was something we had in Ferelden and I think I can feel them here. Some forests have a will of their own and, if this is one of them, then we should probably clear out before we wear out our welcome.”

The howling of the wolf was joined by the answering calls of its pack and, not far from where they stood, a loud creaking was accompanied by a resounding moan that shook the ground where they stood. “What in the Maker’s name was that?” gasped Sebastian, looking down to where the soil was cracking beneath their feet.

Hawke’s eyes were fixed upwards, transfixed. “Ready your weapons,” she barked. “We’re surrounded.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Fenris felt himself thrown backwards to the ground. The land where they had stood broke apart, making way for roots that dislodged themselves from the soil. Unsheathing his sword with a swift movement, he lunged forward to strike at the thick root that had come to life beneath him. All around them, the trees began to jerk forward, the cacophony of their movement almost drowning out the chorus of the approaching wolves.

Sebastian and Varric fell back quickly, darting past the animated roots and vines that sought them out as they sought a safe place to stand while they showered the incursion of wolves with their arrows. Spotting these outliers, far from the others, the wolves charged past the wild sylvan and made their way for the archers. Fenris, out of the corner of his eye, saw the onslaught of beasts that were besieging Varric, who was firing Bianca with impossible speed, and Sebastian, who was reloading his bow as fast as he could but was still unable to hold off the waves of sleek, swift bodies that came forward in relentless waves. Fenris rushed towards them, sweeping three wolves out of his path with a single swipe of his sword. Two more beasts appeared at his right, drawing his attention while a third wolf, graying around its muzzle, darted in towards his left and sunk its teeth into his ankle. He barely had time to strike it before one of Sebastian’s arrows plunged into the wolf’s eye. It fell back, whining from the surge of pain, as Fenris sent its snarling head flying towards Varric’s feet.

The prey on the outskirts of the group had proved to be more protected than the wolves had expected, and the remainder of their pack, small though it was now, turned their attentions towards the two mages who had been left amongst the sylvans. Thus far, Merrill and Hawke had been deft enough to hold off the large trees that slammed towards them, beating down with their furious branches and bringing their roots up as if from nowhere. Already, one of the trees had fallen to the ground in a charred mass that still burned with brilliant, consuming flames while the other two continued in pursuit of the interlopers that had invaded their forest. A burst of bitter cold erupted from Merrill’s outstretched hands, trapping one of the trees within a prison of ice that held against the force of the sylvan’s straining roots. Hawke, conjuring lightning to strike at her foes once more, had her back towards the wolves as they barreled towards her.

Two of the wolves fell, struck down by arrows, but a third was almost at Hawke’s heels when Fenris called out her name. She turned, her lightning surging towards the tree while the wolf hurled its body onto hers. Blindly, Fenris charged towards her, his sword plunging like a lance through the wolf’s body. Its jaws had already locked onto Hawke’s shoulder, its teeth scarcely missing the arteries of her neck. She lay on the ground, her eyes open and her face sprayed with her own blood as well as that of the wolf that Fenris had thrown to the side. Its body had been entirely torn asunder by the force of Fenris’ attack and the blood doused Hawke’s entire body.

She struggled to sit upright but winced as the pain of her punctured shoulder sent shooting pains throughout her body. Instinctively, Fenris knelt at her side, lifting her torso upright. She shook her head, lifting the hand of her uninjured arm to the afflicted area. “It’s fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Look. I’m fine.” Light, bright and brimming with magic that made his lyrium sing, danced across her shoulder, seeping into her body. She smiled at him, a smile that left him almost breathless, as she rose from the ground, rounding once more on the tree that still fought on in spite of the scorching trauma of her lightning. Hurling a heap rock distorted to look like a fist, she knocked the sylvan back, bringing it creaking and flailing to the ground. In its last desperate moments, its roots flailed, bursting forth in all directions and moving with quick, blind chaos. Fenris was unaware of the root that tore from the ground behind him until it plunged like a spear through his right arm.

The shock of it was worse than the pain as he felt it turning and writhing within his arm. Turning his head, he saw that the root had impaled his bicep, separating the muscle from the bone. As the sylvan twitched with incumbent death its frantic movements tore at the tendons that held the muscle to his shoulder. Blood washed over his skin, spurting from the wound as he dislodged the invading skewer from his body. Somewhere far away, Hawke was screaming. It was his name, he thought and, when he looked up, he saw that she was rushing towards him with her eyes wild and full of fear. He tried to step closer to her, his sword still clutched tensely in his left hand as he tried to reach her side. She shouted at him to stay still until she got to him, and he might have if a cluster of vines and roots had not risen from the ground, trapping her in a cage. Merrill had nearly brought the other wild sylvan to its end, but it still fought. Though she was immobile and pursued by the last of the hungry wolves, Hawke shouted at Fenris to stay still.

He felt light-headed then and her voice seemed so far away that he didn’t hear her. Across the surface of his skin, the lyrium markings blazed into life and further numbed the pulsing pain in his arm as his skin and muscle hung limply away from the support of his bone. All he heard was Hawke screaming and all he saw was the horror on her face as she reached for him, her hand outstretched from the prison of roots. Hurling themselves at the cage that held her were the wolves. Fenris’ body carried by will alone, he rushed forward, dispatching the last of the wolves. She was trapped still, and, adrenaline ridding his body of pain and his mind of reason, he began hacking at the roots that held Hawke captive. The roots fell away, weakening as the wild sylvan died, but Fenris continued striking out at them, his vision blurring now and his blood falling to the ground in a pool.

Hawke fought at her cage, screaming at him to stop until she was finally able to break through. It was only then, when she wobbled towards him, that his sword dropped to the ground and he stood, wavering slightly, as she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. Kneeling, she brought him down to the ground with her and forced him to lie back. “Why would you do that?” she gasped, her hands already assessing his injury. He sighed, eyes falling shut. Her breath came raggedly, her whole body shaking as she saw the extent of his injury. “Varric!” she shouted. “Sebastian! Someone get me some damned bandages!”

Her hands flickered with light, sputtering as she tried to cast. “Fuck,” she whispered, watching as the blood continued to flow from his wound. Her mana was all but drained now and, without her magic, he would never recover from blood loss this severe. Varric was at her side, bearing a pack and ready to offer her things as she asked from them. Merrill stood not far off, her face filled with concern. Hawke thought that she hated her in that moment; hated that Merrill could only steal the strength of another’s life force and could do nothing to restore it. Hawke hated herself for having not paid better attention when her father and Anders had tried to teach her to heal; she hadn’t cared to learn—healing could never match the thrill of combat. “Lyrium,” Hawke barked, turning to Varric.

“We only have two weak potions left, Hawke…” he began, extending one vial to her in spite of his warning.

“Then give me both of them,” she hissed impatiently, uncorking one and drinking it back as Varric retrieved the other for her.

Her hands were slick with blood as she reached inside of the gaping wound and rejoined the flesh that had been torn. Flesh rejoined with bone and the worst of it healed, but the wound was still open and trickling blood when the last of her strength left her. Strained and beginning to feel sick, Hawke applied a poultice to fight infection and wrapped the wound with sterile bandages. She sat, one of her sticky, bloodied hands resting on his breastplate while the other ventured to his limp hand.

The others hovered above her, staring down uncertainly as Hawke sat, still and silent, over the unconscious elf. “He will be alright… won’t he?” ventured Merrill, looking with concern at Fenris’ ashen face.

“I don’t know,” whispered Hawke, her voice finally shaking. “I’ve never been very good at this. And he lost so much blood.” Her hand moved from his chest to the side of his throat, two fingers feeling for a pulse. “His heartbeat is stronger though.” The lump in her throat was choking her as the first of the tears began to spill from her eyes. Lifting both her hands, she wiped away the tears, spreading Fenris’s blood across her face as she did so. When she looked up at her companions, her eyes glimmered from the gory mask she now wore. “We have to keep moving; there could be more wolves and if they come back, we’ll be killed for sure.”

No one voiced protest. Not even when the four of them together were forced to carry Fenris’ limp body in addition to their supplies. All was quiet as they moved relentlessly forwards. Hawke’s shaking had stopped. When the others glanced her way, her expression was always resolute and steely. Any fear or worry that she might have felt was bitten back as she focused on the task at hand. Emotions could be saved for when they had safely made camp.

Though there were distant howls in the woods, no more beasts attacked them before they reached the outskirts of the woods. The landscape was steeper now as they traversed the foothills of the mountains and, though it was difficult to climb while weighted with a burden, Hawke demanded that they not stop until the woods were well behind them. Only when she was positively certain of their safety did Hawke instruct the others to make camp. She did not erect her own tent that night, but knelt instead with Fenris’ head resting on her lap. Now and again, as Merrill placed a protective spell around their campsite, she glanced over and saw that Hawke was stroking Fenris’ hair and that her lips moved as if she were saying something. Still, her words were too soft for any of them to hear.

When nightfall came, Fenris had still not regained consciousness. He and Hawke were alone in his tent, a small fire burning nearby the shelter while another burned at the center of camp. He was stripped bare now; she’d examined him with a physician’s eye, carefully searching his body for further injuries while the others went to fetch more water with which she could wash his wounds. The bite on his leg was ugly, but easy enough to treat. Sebastian and Varric had both had similar injuries which had been improved through the use of poultices alone. There was not a speck of mana that Hawke regained that she did not immediately expend on healing Fenris. Of course, even once his wounds were closed, there were no guarantees. She’d seen this sort of thing in Anders’ clinic: all the injuries might be healed, but sometimes, when the blood loss was too severe, the body would simply lapse into unconsciousness before the last signs of life finally flickered away. There was still the chance that, even with all she had done to heal him, he might never wake again.

Anxious and with nothing more she could do, she did all she could to ensure his comfort. She’d lit the fire beside the tent, wrapped him in downy furs, and pillowed his head on her lap. The others kept their distance, gathered within earshot in case she called for their assistance, but never disturbing her. Hawke gave them little thought; all of her attention was focused on watching Fenris’ face for signs of life. She watched as his chest rose and fell with breath and felt the warmth of his body as her fingers ghosted across his cheek. Now and again, as she swept his hair away from his forehead, she saw his eyelids twitch as if he were dreaming. She watched him, transfixed and immovable, until exhaustion finally overcame her.

He awoke, his body pleasantly warm though there was an odd heaviness to all of his limbs. Everything felt a bit numb, as if he had gotten very drunk and all his nerves had deadened slightly. He was, however, acutely aware of the fact that someone was pulling on his hair. Not tugging it, but grasping it so tightly and unwaveringly that it felt as if his hairs might be yanked out at the root. Opening his eyes and staring upwards, he saw Hawke slouching over him, still sitting relatively upright in spite of the fact that she was clearly sleeping. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed with worry. It was her lap beneath his head and her hand that clutched painfully at his hair. He shifted, scarcely moving at all, and her eyes shot open, her fingers yanking at his hair with surprise. Hearing him wince, she dropped the handful of hair and placed a hand on either side of his face, looking down at his open eyes with utter awe in her expression. “Fenris?” she gasped, her lips trembling into a smile. “Oh, thank the Maker, you’re alive!” Her torso arched awkwardly over him as she wrapped her arms around his body. Fenris’ slight, rumbling laugh was muffled by the fact that her breasts were, rather inconveniently, pressed over his nose and mouth. Though her embrace stifled his breath, he obligingly allowed it.

When she sat upright, looking down at his face, the relief of her expression was mingling with concern. “You are alright, aren’t you? Does it hurt very much?”

Fenris shook his head, smiling weakly in a way that he hoped was reassuring. “I’ll live to fight another day,” he groaned, these first words rough in his throat.

Her laughter was made slightly manic by the sheer magnitude of her relief. “I thought you were gone,” she choked at last, her voice cracking slightly as she spoke. “I thought I’d never see you again. Or get the chance to tell you how sorry I am or how much I… how much I’ve missed you.” As she smiled down at him, he saw that she was crying. “I’ve missed you so much,” she added in a whisper, running light fingers through his hair. “I hated not being able to talk to you.” Her fingertips grazed across his cheek, exploring his skin as if she could not believe he was really there.

“I haven’t enjoyed it much, either,” he murmured.

Hawke couldn’t make herself stop smiling, couldn’t make her hands stop running over his skin as he looked up at her, alive and well. “This was stupid,” she muttered, a trace of euphoric laughter worming into her words. “I thought that it would be better this way, but it wasn’t. I thought that this would be easier, but it’s been awful.” Her thumb brushed, barely making contact, across his lower lip. “I’ve missed you so much.”

His eyes were warm as he gazed up at her, the slightest trace of a smile around his lips. “No more distance?” he asked, his voice almost teasing. Her euphoria, it seemed, was contagious.

Only the briefest flicker of sadness crossed her eyes, but he saw it. His smile faded. “Only some,” she whispered, her fingers weaving through his hair as she spoke. “We can’t… do anything you’ll regret. It… wouldn’t be honest or real.” A blush colored her cheeks as she added, speaking quickly, “And if you ever wanted that from me, I’d want it to be real. But it’s not the time for that yet.” She swallowed, composing herself. “But I don’t want to keep missing you. I don’t want to miss out on having a present just because we might not have a future.”

His eyes flickered over her face, searching. “And if I don’t remember?” he asked, eyes fixed on hers. She met his stare, forcing herself not to look away.

“Then I’ll tell you,” she replied, her voice even. “I promise. When the time is right, I’ll tell you everything you need to know about me.”

One of his eyebrows rose slightly. “And what then?”

Her eyes, though they continued to look into his, seemed to be focused on something that was miles away. Still, she smiled faintly. “That’s entirely up to you.”

He asked no further questions then and she did not feel the need to fill the air with chatter. Outside the tent, the fire crackled and an owl’s mournful call drifted through the night. It was warm and quiet and their bodies were both heavy from the exertions of the day. With time, it naturally came that Hawke nestled down beside Fenris, her back turned to him but their bodies close enough to feel one another’s warmth. She did not entreat him to share his blankets with her; he was well enough now that the idea of his naked flesh could not be approached with the same professionalism she’d shown while nursing him to health. Even so, it was warm within the tent and, when sleep did come, they both lapsed into deep, peaceful slumber.

It was another day before Hawke deemed Fenris fit to travel. If she had had her way, she would have most likely kept treating him as an invalid for a week in its entirety. However, Fenris assured her that her ceaseless ministrations were unnecessary and that he was entirely capable of keeping up with the others. Though Hawke gave into his insistence, it was more than noticeable that she was moving at an intentionally glacial pace when they began travelling once more. As it turned out, such caution was a bit superfluous; Fenris proved that he was, indeed, quite fit to travel when he was called upon to dispatch another pack of wolves and did so handily and without incident. Their progress sped once Hawke had this assurance of Fenris’ wellbeing.

Even among the higher peaks of the Vimmark Mountains, the weather was mild and they were able to make good progress. The weeks that they had spent since leaving Minrathous had spanned almost the whole of winter and the days were already growing noticeably longer as they wended their way through the mountain range that stretched between them and Kirkwall. The prospect of being home so soon in the future, had led to a definite giddiness in almost every member of their party. Merrill noted that she was eager to return to her own bed, even if it was in the Alienage, and that she was very much looking forward to continuing her progress with the Eluvian. Sebastian, it seemed, missed the comfort of the Chantry; Hawke suspected that he was just getting exceedingly weary of being surrounded by profligate sinners who showed not the slightest interest in his moral guidance or in the Maker. Varric, though he claimed that Bianca was the only thing he’d ever miss and he, thankfully, had her along for the ride, did express eagerness to get home and share some of the tales he’d gathered over the last months.

Neither Hawke nor Fenris expressed any excitement at the prospect of returning to Kirkwall. Fenris, of course, had few memories of the place and, it seemed, no pleasant ones whatsoever; Hawke, on the other hand, had far too many memories and wasn’t anxious to relive any of them. Though she missed warm baths and clean clothes and having the ability to brush her hair with an actual comb, Hawke dreaded leaving these wild paths behind. Even with the filth and the discomfort of sleeping on hard ground, she was more contented now than she had been during all her years in Kirkwall. Fenris walked beside her once more and, when the nights came, they read together. Though they were often close, there was the understanding now that nothing further could progress between them for the time being. He expected that there would be a day when they would go further; she knew that that day would never come. There was an ache in this gap in their expectations; Hawke felt sadness knowing how deeply disappointed he would be in her. Still, there was nothing to be gained in torturing them both with distance; when the time came for their parting, he would be happy to see her go. Until then, she’d do nothing further to bring him pain.

Time was growing short, she knew, and the passage of the days often left her so anxious that she was unable to sleep. Still, she didn’t want to burden the others with any more of her troubles and, more than anything, she didn’t want Fenris to know just how concerned she was about way ahead of them. Often, she found it necessary to offer some vague excuse so that she could sneak off on her own and vent her emotions. As late afternoon became evening, one day in the lower reaches of the southern side of the mountains, Hawke gathered together the group’s laundry once more. Fenris offered his assistance, as he always did, but she told him that she might take a bath while she was there and that perhaps it was better if he remained behind. He hadn’t argued, but it was clear from her expression that he was aware that that was not her true reason for leaving him with the others. Fenris was not the only one not fooled by Hawke’s insistence on solitude; she hadn’t been by the river long when Varric appeared beside her, sighing heavily as he took a seat on the ground.

Hawke was washing—or rather, pretending to wash—one of Fenris’ socks. Even as she heard Varric clear his throat, she didn’t look up at him. “What is it, Varric?” she asked, her voice resigned.

“Just thought I’d follow you down here and stick my nose where it doesn’t belong,” he replied casually, crossing his legs and continuing to survey her with eyes that saw more than they seemed to.

“Hmph,” she grumbled, still staring intently at the sock as she worked it gently under the water.

Varric smiled. “Getting awfully wistful over a sock, Hawke,” he observed. “Either you’ve gone soft on me or something’s bothering you.”

She sighed impatiently, finally looking up at him. “Varric, I’m fine and I want to be alone.”

There was something almost gentle in his smile as he said, “You’re either fine or you want to be alone, but I doubt that you’re both. My writer’s instincts are telling me that it’s the latter.”

The threat of tears had already been imminent when Varric had arrived, and his wheedling was doing little to help Hawke maintain her impassive veneer. “Varric, could you just leave?” she whispered, a note of pleading creeping into her tone.

He nodded once, his eyes still fixed on hers. “I will if you want me to, Hawke. But, if you’d like to talk, I’m will grudgingly promise you complete confidentiality.”

She exhaled heavily, rolling her eyes and looking away. “ _Complete_ confidentiality?” she said at last, glancing back to him. “No erotic novel is going to spring up with some character named Finch or something who happens to live a life eerily similar to mine, right?”

“Cross my heart,” he assured her, gesturing to match his words.

Narrowing her eyes slightly, she looked back at the sopping sock. “Alright, Varric, but I feel like a damn fool talking about this and, if I do hear that you told anyone what I’m going to say, then I might actually kill you.” Inhaling deeply, she prepared herself for the humiliation of saying, “I’m scared. I hate saying it, but I am. I’ve said from the beginning that, once we got back to Kirkwall, I would tell Fenris everything.” She swallowed, shaking her head slightly. “The closer we get, the harder it is to think about. He won’t forgive me. Not when he finds out what I’ve done. So I’m left just counting the days until I’ll never see him again.” Bowing her head, she shook her hair so that he could no longer see her face as she added, “It might honestly kill me, Varric. The thought of losing him all over again… I think I might die just thinking about it.”

Her body was motionless as she hunched over the water and it was clear that she had no intention of speaking until he’d responded. “I had no idea you were capable of such angst, Hawke,” marveled Varric, leaning forward slightly. “What with the elf and Blondie, I thought our group was maxed out on emotional turmoil.”

Her cough of laughter shook her shoulders slightly. “I know I must sound like an idiot. And I feel like an idiot, believe me. Less than a year ago, I didn’t care whether he lived or died—but now…. It feels just awful, Varric. Like a part of my heart has broken off and started wandering off beyond my control." She laughed again, brushing her hair back from her face and looking at him once more.

Varric had to laugh at the poetic ramblings of first love, but he had the decency to stifle the sound. “You’ll feel better when we get back to Kirkwall, Hawke,” he assured her, trying his best to keep his tone light to prevent her tormenting herself with further introspection. “You’ve just got homecoming jitters now, but once you get back to your nice house and settle back into your old routine then all of this won’t seem so bad.”

“Or it will be a thousand times worse,” she grumbled, adjusting her position so that she was sitting with her body turned towards him. “To get back to that big empty house. Did you know, I haven’t ever lived there by myself? Once my mother was gone, at least I still had Anders. But now that he’s gone too….” She trailed off, bringing the wet sock onto her lap and beginning to wring it as if she were a nervous child with a handkerchief.

Varric smiled, clucking his tongue. “Now Hawke, am I detecting a hint of nostalgia in your tone? Is there a chance that you’re starting to miss ol’ Blondie-bear?” He shook his head with exaggerated awe. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you’re just going to mock me then I’m not going to bother talking at all,” muttered Hawke bitterly.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just having trouble picturing you as the damsel in distress torn between two men.”

She scowled deeply, grumbling acerbically, “I am _not_ torn between two men.”

Varric raised a brow. “So you’re firmly decided on the elf then? Good to know.”

Her frustration was evident and, in spite of his best efforts, Varric could see that Hawke was not amenable to allowing the mood to lighten. “It’s not some tawdry, love-triangle, Varric. It’s not a choice like that. Fenris… he’ll leave or he’ll kill me. Either way, that’s his decision and there’s nothing I can do. But I just… it breaks my heart. I owe him so much and there’s so little I can give back to him.”

“Well, you went all the way to Tevinter and back,” he shrugged. “Not much, but it’s a start.”

“It’s not even the beginning of a start,” she murmured, shaking her head. “If I had a million years to try, I could never make up for what I did. And, what’s more, I could never pay him back for what he’s done for me.”

“Must have been one hell of a gift, Hawke.”

“You’re not helping, Varric,” she sighed. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not helping. I feel like enough of a melodramatic moron talking about all this without you making fun of me. But I’m tired of keeping myself closed off and pretending that I don’t feel the things I do. Because I’m not some dead, hollow shell of a person. And that’s thanks to Fenris. Fenris… he taught me how to be human again.”

“You were doing a pretty good impression of one before, Hawke,” Varric said, leaning back and switching which leg crossed over the other.

Hawke smiled thoughtfully. “Yeah, but that’s all it was: an impression. I stopped being human years ago.” She swallowed, looking down at the sock she wrung in her hands. “When my father died….” Hawke shook her head, clearing her throat before continuing. She was speaking to herself now, but Varric heard her and he watched the play of her expressions carefully as she spoke. “My father… he was such a strong man. He kept us safe and he kept our family whole and together. While he was alive, we were all so… happy. There were times, yes, when we were scared, but he… he always made sure we felt safe. When he died, I tried to be that. I did. I tried. And then Bethy…. I watched her fall and I knew it was my fault. If I had acted sooner or chosen a different path or just… anything… then she’d still be alive. You never knew her… but, Maker, she was so good. Just like my mother. Both of them were so sweet. And Bethy… she always wanted to do what was right. And she would have been such a great mage. She was so kind. Mother blamed me. I know she did. And she was right to.

“And then Carver. I know you didn’t much care for him, but he was funny and brave and he was my brother. And he was good, really. Sweet sometimes. I saw him writing a poem for Merrill once. He crumpled up a dozen drafts before he got it right.” She smiled at the memory before her face fell and she added, with a wet little sob, “But he never got to give it to her, did he?” She covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking slightly and her breaths coming in gasps. “He never got to be the man he could have been. I took him down into the Deep Roads with me and now he’s dead and rotting and that was my fault, too. I couldn’t help him. I just had to watch as… as it happened. No matter how much I loved, or cared, or tried… they just kept falling away. I think… I think I just stopped caring. I stopped thinking of myself as someone who could help. Because I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save any of them.

“By the time my mother died, I was just… empty. I was already cleaned out, going through the motions. When Danarius came for Fenris… I didn’t even think about it. I’d stopped being a protector so long ago. I forgot that, even if you keep failing, you still have to try. You have to try because there’s always something worth protecting and someone worth saving. And Fenris… he’s the most worthy man I’ve ever known. And I never even let myself know him before. I never saw how brave he is or how strong. I never thought about the courage it must have taken to run away for all those years. Or how lonely he must have been by himself for so long. I never noticed how kind he was—to that little elf girl or to Orana. I didn’t think how hard it must have been for him to trust me. And I didn’t even think for one second about helping him. I’d forgotten that I could be that person so long ago. He reminded me what it feels like to care. So it breaks my heart to think of losing him. I don’t love him; love isn’t even the word. I owe him my life. He can do with it what he will.” Hawke laughed under her breath, wiping her face with the back of her hand. When she turned to look at Varric at last, she was smiling. “Thank you, Varric. For listening. And for not laughing.”

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Turns out that that wasn’t very funny once you got going.”

She laughed, clearing her throat. “So… how about we just do laundry now and I’ll sit quietly while you tell me stories? Something with a happy ending?”

He nodded, moving to the ground beside her and gathering some soiled clothes in his arms. “Sounds like a plan, Hawke. Now, have I ever told you about the White Lily of Orlais?”


	20. City of Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang reaches Kirkwall. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only ten(ish) more chapters until the end. Excited, kiddies? And, seriously, thank you guys for reading and for your comments and kudos. I really do appreciate it.

> _“I might not be the right one_   
> _It might not be the right time_   
> _But there's something about us I've got to do_   
> _Some kind of secret I will share with you_   
> _I need you more than anything in my life_   
> _I want you more than anything in my life_   
> _I'll miss you more than anyone in my life_   
> _I love you more than anyone in my life.”_
> 
> _-Something About Us, Daft Punk_

 

It loomed before them—just out of sight but dark and waiting nonetheless. They’d made camp for the night in the last of the foothills that jutted up from the flattened plain that stretched ahead. During the day, with the sunlight falling across the landscape, the black cliffs that rose up around the Waking Sea were coming into view through the sparse trees. Kirkwall, no more than a day away now, was among those cliffs. Though she could not yet distinguish its walls from the rest of the horizon. Hawke could feel its presence. However, by the time night had fallen, her eyes were no longer turned towards the city. They were gathered—all of them together—around the russet glow of their last campfire. Though Fenris had resisted, Hawke had insisted that they spend at least this last night reading with the others.

She sat beside Fenris, both of their backs leaning against the same moss-covered log while he read from a small purple book that Hawke had slipped into his hands earlier that evening. Her head was rested on his shoulder, gazing down at the words as he read along in a hushed voice that was only audible to her. One of her hands was poised, ready to turn the page when they reached the end. Fenris might have done it himself, but one of his hands was occupied with resting lightly atop of the hand Hawke had placed on the ground between them. He had been tentative at first, but when she had not pulled away as she so often did, he allowed his fingers to join with hers as they went on with the story.

“‘Far though he was from the entrance of the barn,” read Fenris in a low murmur, “the sounds of the music and merriment within pervaded the silence of the night where he stood. He could see only the golden swath of light that emanated from the door that sat ajar, letting in the cool night air into the crowded room which brimmed with the youths that had come to share in the merriment of the evening. She was within, he knew, and her image flooded his mind as he stood, gathering the will to enter and seek her face out in the crowd. She would be, no doubt, surrounded by a crowd of suitors and he, already weathered though he had not reached his thirtieth year, would only be dampening her bright spirits. His youth may be fading, but hers was in full bloom. He remembered how she had looked that evening before leaving the house—her glossy hair piled atop her head and adorned with white flowers that seemed to glint like pearls from among her lustrous masses of ebony curls. The dress she wore, crafted from the most finely-wrought damask, was—’” He cut himself of with an exasperated sigh and glanced down at Hawke’s face. “This is preposterous,” he objected. “Surely you don’t expect me to continue on with this tripe?”

“Oh, hush,” she murmured, smiling as she turned her eyes towards him. “Not every book has to be brimming with daring swordfights, Fenris.”

“And not every dress has to be described in excruciating detail,” he muttered.

“It has a happy ending,” she protested, frowning though her eyes still smiled. “Come on, keep reading."

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Alright.” He continued on reading, albeit in slightly bored tones. As he spoke, he felt her fingers shifting slightly against his hand as she sighed, nuzzling her head against his shoulder. She so rarely allowed this degree of closeness that he began to wonder what had brought it about. His best guess was that it was in some way related to him consenting to read her daft novel. Whatever the cause, he tilted his head to the side, his cheek brushing against the crown of her head. She sighed again, a small, happy sound like the purring of a cat, before lifting her head slightly and looking at him with a furrowed brow. He halted his progress with reading along and glanced at her, his own brows drawing together in an unconscious imitation of her expression.

“You haven’t had many more memories of me, have you?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “I haven’t and, for the most part, I’m glad of that. I prefer you as you are now.”

She smiled crookedly, looking almost as if she were attempting to fight back the expression. “Me too.”

Hawke saw his eyes flick downwards, turning their gaze from her eyes to her lips. The glance and all it held caused her stomach to flip slightly. It was lucky now that she’d had the foresight to position them so near to the others so that she would not be overly tempted to take advantage of this final night of  his wonderful ignorance. Even with their eyes turning to her and Fenris at intervals, it was difficult enough to remain relatively composed. His breath fell hotly against her skin, his eyes still lingering on her lips, and she forced herself to let out a little chuckle. “Keep reading,” she insisted, looking back towards the book that lay open across his lap. His eyes remained fixed on her face a moment longer, admiring the faint blush of her cheeks. Then, grumbling his objections, he obliged her by continuing on with the story.

They had not gone on much longer before Merrill, declaring that she was exhausted, rose up and, after bidding everyone goodnight, went off to the tent she shared with Hawke. Hawke looked up after her and, when her eyes passed by the fireside, she saw that Sebastian and Varric had been glancing towards her and Fenris. Sebastian’s expression was one of undisguised concern whereas Varric looked vaguely amused. When Varric caught Hawke’s eyes, he smiled and shook his head, turning his attention back to the fire. Hawke cleared her throat and looked at Fenris. “I’m actually tired as well,” she told him. “Thank you for indulging me for this long.” With the hand that was not intertwined with his, she ran her fingers across the page of the book. His eyes followed the progress of her fingertips as they grazed across the words.

“It’s no bother,” he murmured, looking back up to her face once more. The blush across her cheeks, perhaps brought on by the warmth of the fire, intensified as she smiled sheepishly.

“So, um,” she stammered inarticulately, extricating her hand from his and gathering the book into her arms, “would you… like me to walk you back to your tent?”

He raised a brow, letting out a quick exhalation that was almost a laugh. “I’d venture to guess that I can brave the walk alone, but if you’d like to accompany me, then I’ll voice no objection.”

Hawke rose from the ground, giving a curt nod of her head. “Good. So… let’s go.” She offered him her hand, unnecessarily helping him from the ground.

Though they walked in silence for the few brief yards that lay between the campfire and his tent, Fenris could sense that there was something she wanted to say. More and more these days, the moments of blissful ease were followed by moments of silence during which he could feel the palpable weight of the words that she wasn’t speaking. He got the impression that it would not be long before the words she’d been holding back would no longer be able to be contained. It had gotten to the point that he almost didn’t care about whatever the content of the revelation would be; he only cared about what would follow. There’d be no excuses then—no invisible barriers or aching distance. The space that the silence filled would clear at last and there’d be nothing left to keep her from him.

At the entrance of his tent, she stood, her head bowed as she looked at the ground. “We’re almost home,” she said at last.

“So I’ve been told,” he smiled, watching as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

She was smiling when she looked up at him and, though there was no sadness in her eyes then, he could see the conflict within them. He could almost see something like a question written in her expression. “So… we’ll get you settled and then… well, maybe you and I can talk. Over a pint of ale or something. We can just… talk? About the future, the past… everything.”

He nodded. “I’ll look forward to it,” he said, his voice low and a warm smile slightly lifting his lips at the corners.

She laughed under her breath, looking down once more. “I wouldn’t get overly excited, if I were you. But it will all be sorted soon and just know that I… that I….” She cleared her throat once more, shaking her head as she brushed her hair behind her ear and looked back up at him. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “Goodnight, Hawke,” he replied. Hesitatingly and with halting progress, he lifted his hand and ran his fingers lightly across the hair she’d just pushed back from her face.

Hawke lifted her hand, taking his into her own, and, bringing it to her lips, lightly pressed her lips against his palm. His eyes widened slightly and, though she smiled, she looked as if the gesture had expended a good deal of her energy. “Sweet dreams,” she murmured, abruptly dropping his hand and rushing off towards her tent. He stared after her, frowning slightly, before looking down to where her lips had pressed to his hand. He could still feel her contact lingering there as if her lips were still soft upon his skin. Fenris sighed, shaking his head, and crawled into his shelter.

When the morning came, Hawke rose earlier than usual. As she emerged from her tent, only the first beams of sunlight had begun to color the horizon. The night had brought on a frost that now coated the blades of grass with shimmering crystals that glistened like gold as the morning light spread across the ground. Without bothering to light a fire, Hawke sat atop the log where she and Fenris had leaned the night before and faced towards where her city lay. Soon it would be over.

By the time the others rose, Hawke was able to muster enough energy to feign a smile and some enthusiasm to be headed home once more. It was more than obvious that the excitement the others felt was real; they packed up camp with greater haste than Hawke had ever seen before and, when it was still quite early in the day, they set off down the sloping hillside.

While they made their way towards the main road that led to the city and carved a path directly through its center, there was a good deal of conversation buzzing throughout their group. Happy, bubbling talk of what they would do when they returned and what must have changed during their absence and whether or not Aveline would have sent out a search party to look for them yet. The chatter did not extend to the front of the group, where Fenris and Hawke walked on in silence. Early on, sometime between morning and afternoon, she’d slid her hand into his. As they moved towards Kirkwall, the contact changed and shifted—fingers tightening and slackening at intervals, questing thumbs brushing over one another, the heat of their bodies growing between their cupped palms. Hawke didn’t care that the others watched her then; it was only a few hours more. Her hand tightened over his and he returned the pressure.

As afternoon became evening, they moved swiftly down the road that led towards the walls of the city. Hawke could hear her blood rushing in her ears and feel each beat of her heart send a pulse of adrenaline through her body. Her nerves were so alive that it almost felt as if her skin were burning. She knew well enough that Fenris must be aware of her tension—he must feel the sweat of her palm and the frantic contracting of her muscles as she clutched onto him with such force that it must have hurt him. From time to time, he glanced inquisitively in her direction, mild concern visible on his face even though she only allowed herself to look at him out of the corner of her eye. Still, though it was clear that he wanted to, he asked her no questions and she volunteered no answers.

It was during this time, when Hawke was trying desperately to think of anything except for the dark walls that were growing steadily closer, that she became aware of a creeping uneasiness that had nothing to do with Kirkwall. The birds had fallen silent and she felt the weight of unfamiliar eyes following there movements. When she turned her eyes towards the faintly wooded area that skirted along the side of the road, she thought she may have seen a dark shape darting within them. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the others had not yet become aware that they were being observed; proximity to their final destination had created a lack of awareness among them. “We’re being followed,” Hawke announced flatly. “Which makes sense, I suppose. It wouldn’t be Kirkwall without an ambush of some kind.” At last, she released Fenris’ hand, beginning to play absently with the opal that concentrated her powers.

“How long have they been tailing us, Hawke?” asked Varric, his fingers twitching against Bianca.

She shrugged, turning her eyes forward once more. “It’s difficult to say, but I’d guess that it hasn’t been very long. These idiot thugs usually aren’t the sort to carry out lengthy surveillance missions before they rush headlong into combat. So what do you guys think? We wait for trouble to come to us, or we bring trouble to them?”

“We should be cautious,” Fenris said. “We’re unaware of their numbers and, amongst the trees, their whereabouts may be difficult to ascertain. Better to wait until we can face them on open ground.”

“We could draw them out,” offered Sebastian. “Fire a number of shots into the woods and make them aware that we have been alerted to their presence.”

Hawke nodded decisively. “Fair enough, but keep the shots high; I have no wish for you to skewer them if they’re just a curious group of vagrants or, Maker forbid, some of Aveline’s guardsmen.” She stopped, turning towards the trees with her hands slightly raised at her sides. “Everybody ready?” she asked, glancing back to make sure the others had their weapons easily accessible. After they had given her their assurances of preparedness, she nodded to Sebastian and Varric.

Though the shots were high, their effect was almost instantaneous. Within moments, there was answering fire from the tree line and a surge of armed men rushing towards the road. They were fools, that much was clear. They moved with a lack of precision and foresight that was truly astounding. Hawke had learned, over her years of combat experience, that these bands of soldiers and mercenaries tended to lack a sense of coordinated assault. They came in predictable waves that were easy enough to fight off with only a few skilled companions. Mere humans, like these, were the easiest of all to dispatch; they hadn’t the strength of the Qunari nor the ability to fight on through any pain like animals.

Still, though these men hadn’t the prowess in battle to rival hers or her companions’, the sight of them as they drew near still sent a chill down her spine. Their armor and metal masks were distinctive enough and, once their bodies came hurtling towards her, she knew at once that they had come from Tevinter. It was possible, she knew, that such slavers were unrelated to Fenris; she’d seen numerous slavers who simply sought to lay their hands on any elves that happened to cross their path—but there was a mounting feeling of dread within her that felt as if the slavers had not been watching this road by chance. It was possible—all too possible—that, through the use of the main roads or by sailing the seas, mercenaries could have reached Kirkwall before they had.

The arrows from the trees began to thin as Varric and Sebastian took down the mercenaries that hid within the thin strip of woods. Their cries of surprised pain could be heard as they fell, their bodies giving out at last within the trees. The men who had come forward, armed with daggers and swords, did not fare well. Theirs had been a small band and less than a dozen came forward to offer their paltry attempts at battle. The darkening landscape came alive with the blazing flashes of Merrill and Hawke’s spells as they sent the slavers into writhing convulsions of pain. Fenris moved swiftly, easily cutting down any of the mercenaries that had strength enough to draw near to the others. Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke watched him. It was almost like a dance—swift, graceful movements that were unencumbered by the sword that very nearly matched his height. It was effortless; his lyrium did not even begin to glow as he swept through their attackers.

Her eyes lingered for a moment too long on Fenris and a man, moving with such stealth and speed that he had escaped her attention, seemed to appear beside her. She had only enough agility to barely sidestep his glinting daggers and they thrust forward towards her side. Swearing, she stumbled over a rock and was easily shoved to the ground when he came at her again. The moment she hit the ground, his body crashing heavily onto hers, she let an electric shock surge from her body into his. It was not a strong shock, but it was enough to startle him long enough for her to kick his weight off of her. Before Fenris had even reached her side, Hawke had pinned the dazed mercenary to the ground, straddling his torso while she held down his arms on the ground on either side of his body.

The threadbare fabric of her robes, strained from too much wear, had ripped as she had splayed her legs apart to plant herself firmly on his abdomen. As Fenris approached, he found his eyes drawn irresistibly to the exposed skin of her thigh as she sat atop the mercenary. When the slaver seemed to gain enough strength to offer some resistance, another flash of lightning flowed from Hawke’s hands into the man’s wrists. He cried out, his body tensing and then growing limp beneath her touch.

She looked over her shoulder at Fenris, her expression grave. “I think this is the last of them,” she said a bit breathlessly. “We should see what he has to say for himself.” Fenris nodded and Hawke, turning back to the man who lay captive beneath her, asked sharply. “Why were you following us?” The man glowered up at her, holding his tongue. “If you think that you’re going to keep quiet, then you’re wrong,” she hissed. “You can talk now or I can make you scream for mercy, but either way I will hear your voice before you die.” Only the faintest shock sparked against his skin this time, but it was enough to remind his flesh of the pain that still hummed within his body.

“The bounty,” he grimaced. “We were after the bounty. We were told to bring the elf and the human mage and to kill the others.”

Unconsciously, her hands tightened on his wrists, fingernails digging into his skin. “Are there others?” she whispered, her voice tinged with a trace of the concern she now felt.

“I don’t know!” the slaver spat, trying to buck her off of him and earning himself a searing burn across his forearms.

“I don’t enjoy making death come slowly,” she hissed, eyes narrowing as he whimpered beneath her. “But you’ll find that I will make exceptions for slavers. Now, who set the bounty?” Her voice was low, lethal.

“The new magister,” he gasped, his teeth gritted through the pain. “I don’t remember his name. We only knew that there was a reward for the slave.” His eyes closed, a tear escaping down his cheek as he panted, “Please.”

“You didn’t even think about it, did you?” Hawke snarled, lifting her body off of his and leaving him lying in the road as she walked swiftly to Fenris with her head hanging forward. “He’s all yours,” she said quietly, gently grazing Fenris’ shoulder with her fingertips as she stood beside him.

The sound of the slaver’s snapping neck hung in the air for a moment as Fenris released the body and let it fall to the ground in a heap. Hawke turned, shuffling over to the corpse and stooping down beside it. Eyes—blue and flecked with silver around the pupil—stared blankly into the nothingness that now enveloped him. “He deserved it, didn’t he?” she murmured quietly, looking up at Fenris with wide, searching eyes.

His jaw was set as he nodded. “They all deserve death and more,” he said, his lip curling with disgust as he looked down at the body that lay at his feet.

“You’re right,” she whispered. With her touch almost weightless, she ran her hand across the slaver’s face with blue flames spilling from her fingertips as she trailed downwards to his heart, where her hand came to a rest. The flames spread quickly, swallowing the body as Hawke rose to her feet and walked silently off towards the city.

When the city rose from the ground before them, a mere matter of paces from where they stood, Hawke paused and stared up at the yawning arch that arced above the road. “I can’t believe we’re already here,” she marveled. The moon, full and white, flooded the city with light. 

“It didn’t exactly seem like a quick jaunt to Tevinter to me, Hawke,” Varric sighed, walking up to her side and turning his own eyes to follow her line of sight.

She smiled to herself, feeling the chill of the night air coming across the sea. “I suppose it wasn’t,” she sighed. Lowering her gaze, she turned to face the others and added, “Thank you all. Really, I know that you didn’t have to come with me and I know that it hasn’t been easy, but this could never have happened without you.” Her eyes flicked quickly to Fenris. “I won’t forget it.” Her smile spreading, revealing her teeth, she extended a timid hand to Fenris. “Let me walk you home?” she said as their hands settled together once more.

He returned her smile, though he did not fail to notice the melancholy that pervaded her expression. Side by side, they crossed into Kirkwall together.

It was agreed amongst them, as they made their way through the moonlit streets, that it would be best to make sure that Merrill got home safely before their party fractured off to their own homes. Lowtown was never particularly safe at night and it was Hawke’s suspicion that her long absence had did little to improve the security of the city. As they made their way towards the Alienage, Hawke glanced at Fenris whenever she felt that her gaze would go unnoticed. His attention, she saw, was quite diverted by the city that now surrounded them. He’d remembered nothing of these walls, she knew, and though he’d been told that this was his home, it was clear that it was all foreign to him. There was nothing he knew in these arches, these crumbling walls, or the fading banners that caught the wind and fluttered audibly overhead. When they approached the Alienage, she saw his nose crinkle in disgust.

“You never were particularly fond of the Alienage,” Hawke murmured as they passed down the stairs into the courtyard. Then, with a smile, she added, “But this is where I first met you.”

He looked at her, lifting a brow quizzically. “Was I… living here?”

“No, you were ripping the heart of a slaver.”

The corner of his lip twitched into a half-smile. “Glad to hear that I made a favorable impression.”

“That you did.” Looking over her shoulder, she added, “Merrill dear, you do have a key, don’t you?”

Merrill’s face registered something like dawning panic but Varric, chuckling lightly, extracted a brass key from the pocket of his coat and offered it to Merrill. “I didn’t want you getting locked out of your own house, Daisy,” he said as she accepted the key with a relieved sigh.

“I’ve never been very good about remembering keys,” she admitted. “We Dalish don’t really live in houses, you see, and I’ve never had much use for keys before. Thank you, Varric,” she said, smiling sweetly as she approached the door to her house.

He inclined his head in a nod of recognition. “No problem, Daisy.”

They entered the house with her, checking for any squatters that might have sprung up during her absence, but, finding none, they bid her farewell and began to make their way towards The Hanged Man. It felt odd to be without Merrill; for so long, they had travelled together day in and day out that it felt strange to be leaving someone behind. Hawke knew that it was just the process of returning to normalcy, but it was jarring nonetheless to feel Merrill’s absence.

As was typically the case at night, there were drunkards milling about outside of The Hanged Man. When they caught sight of Hawke and her companions, their eyes widened. Hawke hadn’t given much consideration to just how ragged they had all become until she realized that even groups of blithering drunks found their appearance shocking. Within The Hanged Man itself, their arrival caused a greater commotion. Varric, of course, was well-known within the tavern and, when the patrons turned their eyes towards the door, there was an uproar when they saw the familiar face of the dwarf. A flood of patrons, all in various stages of inebriation, swept over and dragged Varric along with them when they departed. Within moments, he was encircled by a circle of eager listeners all of whom were volunteering to buy him drinks.

“Your dwarf is… popular,” noted Fenris, sounding rather surprised.

“Drunks love to be entertained,” shrugged Hawke, smiling, “and Varric loves to entertain.” Then, glancing from Fenris to Sebastian, she added, “Now, we can all head off to Hightown soon, but I’m going to speak to Corff. Is that alright?” They nodded though she had already turned and was making her way to the bar.

When the bartender saw her, his eyes widened. “Time has not been kind to you, Champion,” he said with a frown. “I’d say that a hot bath would do you more good than a pint of ale right now.” He shook his head, clearly marveling at just how disheveled she had become.

“Yes, thank you, Corff,” she replied tartly, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m not here for tips about personal hygiene; I'm here to ask if you’d heard anything about slavers in town. I ran into some outside of town and was wondering if there have been more than usual lately.”

Corff glanced down at the mug he was cleaning, looking thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, I did hear the city guards talking about an upswell of slavers of late. Word is, they came down with some magister fellow.”

“They came here _with_ a magister?” she echoed. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what I heard,” he shrugged. “Now, I can’t tell you more than that, but I can get you a stiff drink to soothe away your battle pains.”

She shook her head, sighing heavily. “No, that’s fine. Thank you, Corff.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, turning back to his paying customers.

The concern she felt must have showed on her face because, the moment she reached Sebastain and Fenris, Sebastian asked, “Is something the matter, Hawke? You look troubled.”

Brushing her hair roughly back from her face, she let out a huff of breath. “Yes, I’m troubled,” she replied with her voice straining to remain even. “I thought that this was over, but it seems like one of our little friends from Tevinter has made his way down here ahead of us.” She shook her head, muscles in her jaw tightening. “And now I have to sort this out before… well.” Looking back to Fenris with weary eyes, she added, “I know that this is a lot to ask, but would you mind waiting a little longer before heading back to your home? There’s a chance that the slavers know where you live and I’m not going to leave you there alone until I know that it’s safe. If you’d really like to get back to your house, then I suppose that’s alright, but I would really feel better about all of this if you would stay with me for the night. It won’t be long, I promise.”

Before Fenris could answer, Sebastian audibly cleared his throat and Hawke glared bitterly at him. “I’m sorry, did you have something you wanted to say, Sebastian?”

He had been about to suggest that Fenris could stay at the Chantry, but he thought better of the suggestion when he met Hawke’s eyes. “If that’s what you wish, Hawke,” he replied, resigned.

Fenris glanced from one to the other as though their exchange both alarmed and amused him. At last, when Hawke looked back at him, he said, “I haven’t any objection, Hawke. I’ve been in your company for a long while now and it’s likely that I will be able to bear it for a few more nights at least.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her lips upturned slightly. “Good,” she said tersely, leading the way to the exit.

She hadn’t wanted this. She had never intended to draw it out longer than was necessary. It would have been better, she knew, to put an end to it quickly. To tell him the truth and let it be over as soon as possible. It didn’t seem right, however, to leave Fenris with the burden of finishing off his pursuers alone. It was that sadistic blonde bastard, she knew it. And she was going to make damn sure that Fenris was never at his mercy or another magister’s ever again before… well, before she was no longer in the position to be of use to anyone.

The streets of Hightown were quiet, offering her mind too few distractions from her foul thoughts. She could make it through a few more days of waiting to tell the truth and, though she loathed the anticipation, a part of her was almost glad. A sick part of her was glad that things would remain as they were for just a bit longer—his body near hers, his hand warm against her own, and the knowledge that, at least in that moment, he valued her existence. She hated herself for wanting that to continue, but she craved it and a twisted part of her was glad to have a few more days with him.

“This is it,” she said as they rounded the corner and entered the courtyard where her mansion was situated. “Sebastian, would you like us to take you the rest of the way, or is this far enough?”

Shaking his head, he responded, “The Chantry isn’t far, Hawke, though your concern is much appreciated.” Then, slowly, he added, “Know that I will be there, Hawke, if you should need anything of me in the future.”

“I know, Sebastian,” she said gently, almost smiling. “Stay safe.”

He inclined his head. “And you as well, Hawke.” He turned, walking briskly away while Hawke and Fenris stood before her door. It was then that she began to realize just what it meant to have Fenris stay the night within her mansion without any companions to serve as a buffer between them.

Awkwardly, she laughed under her breath. It was too quiet and if the silence lasted much longer, then it was only a matter of time until he heard her heartbeat. When she glanced at him, his hair especially white as it caught the moonlight, Hawke tried to remember if Fenris had ever come to her home before. Once, she thought, after they’d gone to find Hadriana. Funny how that had happened. Perhaps once or twice after that as well; she couldn't quite recall. “So… I live here,” she muttered, gesturing at the façade of the building.

He was trying not to laugh at her and she could tell from his expression that he was just barely succeeding. “So it seems,” he said, nodding. He took a step closer to her, rendering the space between their bodies virtually nonexistent.

“So I’ll… open the door.” It was a miracle that she had been able to form any words at all, but it would have truly spectacular if she’d have managed to say something that wasn’t quite so stupid.

She heard him chuckle and, looking up, felt her heart stuttering as she saw the expression in his eyes. Clearing her throat quickly, she turned to door and began to fumble about with her key. It shook in the lock, rattling audibly before she managed to get the door open. Throwing it open, she rushed inside and held the door for Fenris.

As he stepped over the threshold, he looked around with appraising eyes. “You’ve done well for yourself, then,” he remarked casually. “Though I can’t say that I’m surprised that a woman such as yourself would find success.” He ventured deeper into the building, turning his eyes upwards towards the chandelier.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t swung on that a few times,” she said abruptly, moving up to his side. “Sandal gave me the idea and it’s actually fun. Once you figure out how to keep from falling to your death, that is.” Her hands twisted together behind her back.

“And Sandal is…?” he asked, turning to her. He was close again. It was her own fault this time; she’d stood too close to him when she’d moved to his side. Close enough that, if she raised slightly on her toes, she’d be able to—

But before she could tell Fenris who exactly Sandal was or to do anything else, there was the thunderous sound of four large paws pounding down the staircase. The sound of her mabari’s happy barks instantaneously brought a grin to her lips and, forgetting to feel awkward for a moment, she rushed forward, allowing herself to be tackled to the ground when the dog’s body collided with her own. Fenris watched, wondering whether or not he ought to intervene as the dog licked so enthusiastically at Hawke’s nose and mouth that it seemed unlikely she’d be able to breathe properly without inhaling drool. Even under such strenuous affection, however, she was laughing. A bright, euphoric laugh that came from her so infrequently that Fenris never would have dreamt of interrupting it.

At last, after frantically greeting his mistress, the mabari seemed to notice Fenris for the first time and, quickly, he leapt up and placed his front paws on the elf’s shoulders and began to lap his tongue across Fenris’ face.

Fenris’s expression of utter shock and indignation kept Hawke’s smile firmly fixed as she rose from the ground. “He remembers you,” she told him. “You actually used to get along quite well, as I recall. In fact, I’m fairly certain that you liked Brutus here more than you liked me.” She stifled a laugh as the mabari ran its tongue over Fenris’ ear. “And I can see from your expression that that’s no longer the case.” Coming forward, she urged to dog to plant all for of its gigantic paws on the floor. “He’s never been very good with boundaries, sorry,” she explained with an apologetic smile.

“That’s… fine,” said Fenris, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I don’t think that I’ve ever received such an enthusiastic greeting before.”

“Well, he missed you, I’d wager. I think the two of you played a game or two of Wicked Grace down at The Hanged Man.” She grinned. “Varric was always teaching Brutus the most disgusting habits.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows, looking down at the dog’s joyful face and its lolling tongue. “Well, I hope I won, at least.”

Hawke frowned thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t think you did.”

“Well, that’s a shame then,” Fenris said, watching Hawke’s hands as she rubbed at the beast’s ears. When he glanced up at her face, she looked happy for the first time since they’d arrived in Kirkwall. Whatever had rendered her so concerned must have, at least for a time, left her mind. It was a strange sight to see her at ease and in her own home. He wondered, smiling unconsciously, what it might be like to spend the days with Hawke when they were not constantly moving towards a destination or spending the nights sleeping in tents. It occurred to him that they had never truly been alone in this manner before. They had had moments apart from the others, but there had always been the awareness that their companions were not far off. Now, in her home, there were no prying eyes and no ears to overhear anything they might say. If they went off in the same direction when they retired for the evening, no one would make comment. If they woke in the same bed, no one would know what had passed during the night. He stepped forward and she, with a look in her eyes that told him that she was aware of the turn his thoughts had taken, stepped back.

“So you can, um, make yourself at home,” she said hurriedly, smiling. “This place has been with my mother’s side of the family for ages, but I’ve never, um, felt very possessive of it. I should probably just leave it to my uncle, but, you know, just make yourself at home.” She laughed mirthlessly and he knew that he had put her on edge. Opening his mouth to say words that he hadn’t yet considered, Fenris was cut off as a diminutive dwarf came bursting into the room wearing a dressing gown and a decidedly harried expression.

“Oh, Champion! You’ve returned,” the dwarf exclaimed breathlessly. “When I heard your mabari barking, I thought perhaps some burglars had decided to take advantage of your absence, but it is you, Messere! And what a relief it is; Sandal and I were worried sick… and of course the elf girl, as well.”

Hawke shrugged to Fenris before speaking to the dwarf who looked near weeping with relief. “Yes, I am indeed back. Thank you for worrying, but I am really am alright. And, as you can see, I’ve brought a guest.” She gestured to Fenris. “You remember Fenris, don’t you?”

Bodahn, who had never fully approved of some of Hawke’s more wild acquaintances, didn’t look overly pleased to see the elf once more. “Yes, I do. And it is a pleasure to see that you have returned unharmed to Kirkwall, Serah. Will you… be here long?”

Fenris looked to Hawke and she answered on his behalf. “For tonight at the least,” she said.

“I see,” said Bodahn, looking between Fenris and Hawke. “I’m sure your journey has been long, Champion, would you… like me to have Orana bring you and your _guest_ something to eat in your chamber?” Though his voice held no judgment, there was a trace of it in his eyes.

Hawke’s eyes widened and she replied quickly, “No! I mean, no. Fenris he… he won’t be spending the night in my room.” She glanced over at Fenris, looking almost apologetic for having protested so vehemently. “Which is to say that he’ll be sleeping… in my mother’s room.” Turning to Fenris, she added, “Would you like something to eat? Orana really is an amazing cook; she learned from her father and, as I understand it, he was incredibly skilled.”

Fenris shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to trouble your girl so late at night,” he replied.

Hawke nodded and looked back at Bodahn. “We’re alright, then, Bodahn. Thank you.” She laughed lightly, brushing hair back from her face as she added, “Sorry to wake you with our arrival, but we’ll probably just go off to bed.”

“Are you sure, Messere? Anything you need, anything at all, and you have only to ask.”

“It’s fine, Bodahn,” she confirmed. “We’ll both just sleep, I think. Goodnight, Bodahn!” As if to illustrate her point, she began to head towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms on the floor above. The mabari remained by the fire, nestling before its warmth, as Fenris followed Hawke, feeling slightly uncomfortable as the dwarf traced his movements. As they began to ascend the staircase together, Fenris glanced over his shoulder and saw the dwarf begin to walk back towards his own quarters. Hawke, also seeing Bodahn’s departure, murmured, “I’m sorry if that was at all uncomfortable. He’s just… a little protective of me. Especially since my mother died.” Her last words were almost a whisper.

“I am… sorry about your mother,” Fenris ventured as they climbed the last of the stairs and arrived at the top landing.

Hawke smiled gently at him, leading him along towards a door at the left. “This was her room,” she said, resting a hesitant hand on the doorknob. “I never go in it. I haven’t been able to. It just… reminds me too much of what happened.”

“I… cannot imagine what it must be like to lose your family,” he said, watching her eyes as the memories of her mother played across her mind. “I am sorry.”

Hawke sighed slightly, turning the knob and opening the door. “Well,” she whispered, smiling sadly, “I’ve gotten used to losing the people I love.” She entered the room and he followed after her.

It was a medium-sized room that held the trophies a woman who had had many loved ones in her life. Cluttered on the walls, mounted above the bed and dresser and chaise, were numerous portraits of people who, Fenris could only assume, were Hawke’s family. His eyes roved over the walls and came to rest on a small painting that he knew was of Hawke. Slowly, he moved forward towards the bed, stopping near the wall where it hung to examine the portrait more closely. Hawke trailed after him and, seeing where his eyes were fixed, laughed. “I was so young then,” she said. “My sister painted it when she was sixteen. My mother had to beg me for hours to pose for Bethany, and now I’m so glad that she did. It’s the only one of Bethy’s paintings that I still have.” The smiled faded from her face.

Fenris lifted his hand, running his fingertips across the small brass plate that was mounted below the painting. “Elena,” he read aloud. He turned to Hawke. “Is that your name?”

She blushed, turning her eyes towards the lavender blankets that lay across the bed. “Yes,” she answered. “I don’t think you ever knew it, even before.” Smiling, she added, “I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

“Elena,” he repeated softly, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. Her skin was soft beneath his hand and her eyes wide as she tilted her face up towards his. She lifted one of her hands, settling her fingers over his.

“I have to go,” she murmured, her voice rough and sounding as though speaking those words cost her tremendous effort.

He let his fingers linger on her cheek before drawing back, sighing heavily. “As you wish.”

“Goodbye, Fenris,” she said quietly, stepping backwards towards the door.

“Goodnight, Elena,” he murmured, bowing his head and looking towards the floor until he heard the door click shut behind her.

In the hallway, she felt her breath coming in short gasps, her eyes welling with water. It had been a mistake to bring him here. A mistake to think that she could ever stay away when he was so close. Still, she forced herself to stumble away from the door, rushing into her room and locking the door behind her. She wished he knew who she was, wished that she had the strength to tell him, and wished with every part of herself that, for even one moment of her life, she had ever been a person worthy of him. Her legs shaking, she walked to her bed, falling backwards across the mattress and covering her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her words muffled by her palms.

When she heard the first faint knock at the door, she was sure that she had imagined it. Sitting up, she stared at the door as if it were possessed. Then there came a second knock and, this time, she knew that it had not been her imagination. She shouldn’t answer it, she knew. She shouldn’t unlock the door when what was waiting for her on the other side was too impossible to contemplate. But she was tired and worn thin and her body, rebelling against her mind, carried her to the door. Her hand only paused for a moment before she opened the door and looked up at him with her eyes full of wonderment.

“Anders,” she gasped, her body beginning to tremble as she stepped back from the doorway. “How did you get here?”

His face was grave but soft as he entered the room after her, closing the door lightly behind him. “I used the key you gave me to get away from the Templars. They’ve been cracking down and I’ve been coming here from time to time.” As he spoke, he was looking at her almost as if he believed she were a figment of his imagination. “Varric told me you were back, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you with my own eyes.” He stepped forward and her muscles, turned to lead, were too fixed for her to retreat. “You’ve been gone for so long,” he murmured, awe in his voice as he cupped her cheek with his palm just as Fenris had only moments before. “It might as well have been half a year that you’ve been gone and....” He trailed off, his voice catching in his throat. Anders shook his head, smiling, before adding, “I was so scared, Elena. Scared that something happened to you.” He lifted his other hand to her other cheek and gently pulled her face to his. She stood still, immobile, as he kissed her. His lips were soft against hers, as if he thought that perhaps she was a dream and, if he kissed her with too much pressure, she would fizzle and fade. When he pulled back, he smiled to find her still there within his reach. “Hawke,” he whispered, “I’m so glad that you’re alright.”

His hands were warm against her cheeks and his scent was clean and sweet in spite of the time spent in Darktown. She was shaking, her body unresponsive to the commands she tried to issue to it as he wrapped his arms around her. He bent his head, pressing his lips into her hair. He held her tightly, unable to loosen his grasp for fear that, if he did, she might disappear again.

Her head felt light as she allowed him to cradle her to his chest. “Are these new robes?” she asked stiffly, unable to say anything that even closely approximated what she felt in that moment.

He chuckled at the mundaneness of the question. “Yes. The old ones didn’t seem to suit me any longer.”

She stood still within the circle of his arms, listening to thud of his heart. It was almost impossible to believe that he was really there and that it was truly his arms that held her. It felt like a lifetime since she had seen him; it felt like something from the life of a stranger.

Hawke pulled back slightly from his embrace and looked up at the mage. “It was good to see you again. You’re not terribly angry with me, are you?” She extricated herself from his arms and took three stumbling steps backwards.

“That’s it?” he laughed. “A quick hug and you’re done with me?” He spoke jokingly, but there was a trace of very real confusion lurking within his question.

 “As you said,” she said unsteadily, “it was a long trip. I’ll tell you more about it later, but right now I just want to sleep.”

Anders smiled, raising a single brow slightly. “I don’t have to leave for that, Hawke. I’ve missed sleeping beside you.” She wanted to answer, but there was such hope in his smile that she found it difficult speak at all.

Clearing her throat, she shook her head from side to side. “Anders, I can’t. We’ve already done this. I can’t do it again.”

He was silent for a long moment, the smile fading from his face in small stages. “Elena, I waited,” he whispered, a hint of indignation creeping into his tone. “For months, I waited. From the moment you left, all I wanted to do was apologize to you. And I realize I haven’t yet, so here it goes.”

“There’s really no need,” she began, wishing that all of this would just stop.

“No, please,” he interrupted, fixing his eyes earnestly upon her face. He strode over to her and took her hands into his own, grasping them tightly as he stared into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Hawke,” he said gently. “Since I’ve known you, all I’ve done is demand that you see things my way and help me with my projects. All I’ve done is talk about my own thoughts and my own feelings and the moment that you tried to be honest with me, I dismissed everything you were saying. I didn’t even try to understand why you needed to go to Tevinter; I only accused you of being unfaithful. And when you ended things with me, I just let you go alone. I should have gone with you. Just to make sure you were safe. I should have never given up on you.” He lifted one her hands to his lips. “I’ll never give up on you again, Elena. Please don’t give up on me.”

It felt so very much like someone was choking her that Hawke wondered if she’d be able to speak at all. “I'm not giving up on you, Anders,” she managed, “but I can’t go backwards.”

He stepped back, knitting his brow. “Why do you have to be so cruel, Elena?”

“I’m not being, cruel; I’m being honest,” she replied, looking away from him and pressing the tip of her shoe into the floor until her foot stung.

“After all this time, you don’t even think that it’s worthy of discussion?” he said indignantly.

“Would you please keep you voice down?” she shot back, glancing towards the door.

His eyes followed her gaze and, when they looked back at her, she saw that he had registered something. “Is there someone else _here_?” he asked, looking utterly astounded.

Hawke bit her lower lip. “Yes,” she sighed, her voice filled with resignation. “Fenris.”

Anders stared at her, bewildered and aghast. “Are you _with_ him?” he murmured, his voice full of disbelief.

Her answer came slowly. More slowly that she would have liked. But at last, meeting his gaze, she said, “No. I’m not.”

“But you’d like to be?” he spat vehemently.

Hawke stared at him, her eyes hollow and blank. In all the days leading up to her arrival, she hadn’t thought she’d be asked these questions. She’d thought that it would be over by now. “Anders,” she said at last, “this is beside the point. Fenris… he isn’t here in a romantic capacity. He’s here because I don’t want him to be in any danger. But I don’t want you to be in danger either. If the Templars are still cracking down on Darktown, then you can stay here. You’re my friend, as is Fenris, and I don’t want either of you to be in danger.”

He scoffed. “I’m your _friend_?” he spat. “After everything, Hawke? No, I can’t stay under the same roof as that… that _thing_. He’ll turn on you, Elena. One day or another, he will turn on you.”

She nodded slowly, eyes remaining fixed on his. “I know,” she murmured. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

His eyes searched her face, his brow drawn and his jaw slightly slack. “I don’t even recognize you,” he breathed, meeting her eyes with confusion and, she thought, disgust.

“Good,” she said flatly, her voice unwavering.

Anders stared at her, but she said nothing more. There was nothing more to say. When he turned to leave, she offered no protest and, when the door slammed behind him, she felt only relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) The map of Kirkwall is… interesting. Varric says that, after two weeks on the Waking Sea, the Hawke clan (and Aveline) reaches Kirkwall, sailing through black cliffs and seeing the Gallows. Well, they come from the south and, on the map you see in the game, the Gallows are at the top of map, as are the docks. So that would mean that north is actually at the bottom of the map and not the top. So, I sort of inverted things a little bit and tried to make the geography fit as best I could. Either way, I sort of imagine the city as being a bit terraced… sort of like Minas Tirith in LOTR. So, no matter where you come in from, you sort of have to work your way through Lowtown up to Hightown. Meh, it’s a small issue, but that’s where I was coming from if anything seems weird.
> 
> B) The book that Fenris is reading to Hawke is based on Ethan Frome (or rather my vague recollection of Ethan Frome). Early on in that book, Ethan waits for Mattie outside of a community dance and watches rather jealously as she dances with someone else. Jeez, I love that book. Here, I chose to make it sort of chintzy and stupid because I thought it was funny that Hawke likes silly romance novels and that Fenris has to read them to her. Anyway, it's a great book... if super duper depressing. 
> 
> C) The "sadistic blonde bastard" that I am referring to is Flavius, an OC. If you don't remember him, that's okay. I mean, he's really not why we're here. If you need a refresher, consult Chapter 7. Flavius is the dude with the needles and such.
> 
> D) Aw, puppy. I love dogs about 73% more than I love humans. Maybe 75% more. And, if you have The Black Emporium, then you can have a fluffy little bugger to back you up. Really, that doesn’t make much sense to me. Hawke is not a noble and I just don’t think that she’d have a mabari. I mean, I suppose Loghain had one and he was just a farmer’s son… but still. I decided to include the dog because I love the moments that he has with your companions. The moment where Fenris seems to understand what the mabari is saying about magisters cracks me up.
> 
> E) Yup. Fenris didn't know Hawke's first name. How could he? Anders is the only one who ever uses it and he only does so in private.


	21. Eyes and Ears

When morning came, it was Orana who woke Hawke. The sun had long since risen but, overcome by the exhaustion that had been building within her these last months, Hawke had failed to wake as those first rays of light spilled through her windows. When Hawke awoke, she found that she’d fallen asleep fully clothed and sprawled across her bed without even having covered herself with a single blanket. When Anders had left the night before, she had crumpled back onto the bed and sighed heavily, feeling drained by the encounter. Thinking of the complications he could introduce into her already complicated life was rather too overwhelming to contemplate. The stress of such thoughts, however, was diminished as she sank back on her mattress. The bed was soft and, though there was no fire to heat the room, she was more comfortable than she had been these many months. She’d fallen asleep swiftly and scarcely stirred until Orana had finally mustered the courage to shake her awake.

“Orana,” Hawke mumbled, peering up at her servant with one eye still closed. Orana looked anxious, clearly concerned for her mistress’s wellbeing, and yet relieved that Hawke was back in the mansion once more and in one piece. Hawke smiled, trying to be reassuring as she began to stretch the lingering stiffness of sleep out of her limbs. As she arched her back and extended her arms over her head, she said, “I trust that all was well in my absence.” Hawke forced herself to sit upright on the bed, continuing the process of flexing her sore and aching muscles back into life.

“Oh yes,” Orana assured her, nodding. “There was no trouble at all, really. Though we were all quite worried about you. It took you a very long time to return, Mistress, and you sent no news.”

“Right,” Hawke said, rising from the bed with a loud groan. “There wasn’t much of a chance to send news, I’m afraid. We were in the wilderness for the most part and tried to stay away from towns and people as much as possible. I completely forgot about sending word back to Kirkwall.” Hawke smiled sheepishly as she added, “I know it was really careless of me, but I forgot that my absence might worry anybody.”

Orana shook her head, dismissing Hawke’s apology. “Oh, it’s quite alright, Mistress. We should have known that you would be alright. You always are.”

Hawke chuckled under her breath. “Well, I’m glad that you at least have faith in me, Orana.” As she spoke, she began to shuffle towards the full-length mirror that was mounted on the wall beside her armoire. The moment she caught sight of her reflection, Hawke wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Ugh,” she groaned. “Well, that’s a mess, isn’t it?” She lifted her fingers, brushing them clumsily through her unwashed hair and then running them across her cheekbones. Perhaps because she had not seen her reflection in a proper mirror for so long, Hawke had not realized the great alteration that had come to her appearance. The lack of food as well as overexposure to the elements had brought stark changes to her face. Her cheeks were hollow now, concave and seeming to collapse over her jawbone as if she were nothing more than a bit of skin stretched over skull. She turned from the mirror quickly, walking to the vanity table in which she kept her boar-bristle hairbrush.

“Would you like me to prepare you a bath, Mistress?” offered Orana, sounding almost hopeful that she would have the chance to take care of someone once more.

“I think that food may be a more pressing concern,” answered Hawke, feeling the bile of hunger churning within the pit of her stomach. “You wouldn’t mind, would you Orana?” She sat on the edge of her bed, turning her eyes towards the frayed ends of her hair as she added, trying to keep her voice casual. “And you may need to prepare a bit more than usual, if it’s no bother. A guest of mine spent the night in Mother’s room. If you wouldn’t mind making sure that he gets fed as well, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Orana tilted her head slightly to the side. “Would you like your guest to dine with you, Mistress? I could ready the breakfast room, if you’d like.”

“That would be wonderful,” Hawke said, though her heart beat uncomfortably at the prospect. “Let him sleep until everything is ready, though. I’m sure he’s tired and I don’t want to disturb him.”

“May I ask what I should call your guest, Mistress?” asked Orana politely.

“Of course, names,” Hawke said, beginning the process of tying her oily hair back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. “It’s Fenris. You remember him, don’t you? He’s fairly distinctive looking: white hair, green eyes, and white markings on his skin. You met him in the caves when… well, while we were looking for Hadriana.”

Orana smiled, nodding to show that she did indeed remember the incident. Of course she had not forgotten that day. After what had happened to her father, everything about that day seemed indelibly impressed into her memories. “Yes, I remember him,” she confirmed. “I’m surprised to hear that he is here as your guest. I’d heard….” She blushed, trailing off before adding quietly, “I’d heard that he’d been sent back to Tevinter. I did not think that he would come back to your home.”

Hawke felt a surge of discomfort, turning from her reflection back towards Orana. It was not surprising, she supposed, that Orana had caught wind of what had happened to Fenris and the role that Hawke had played in his disappearance. What surprised Hawke was that she had never considered before how her elven servant would feel about what had happened. “He’s lost some of his memories,” Hawke said quietly. “He’ll be leaving once it’s safe for him to be on his own.”

“I see,” said Orana, bowing her head. “I will attend to your guest as best I can and send for you both when breakfast is ready.”

Hawke smiled. “Thank you, Orana,” she muttered as her servant took her leave.

Alone once more, Hawke removed the soiled clothes she had worn throughout her journey and slipped into a clean set of velvet robes. Though they were common enough and did in fact bear the stains of bloodshed, they felt incredibly luxurious to Hawke after all those weeks of wearing tattered, threadbare robes that had grown almost oppressively pungent as time wore on. It was, for all the unpleasant things that came with it, nice to be home. Moreover, she was despairing less now than she had the night before about the Magister and his slavers. After all, it would be easier this time than it had been with Danarius; she’d be on her own soil and there would no longer be a need for the pretense of seeming demure and submissive. There was no point in resenting this obstacle and, though she would have much rather come home to find no cumbersome impediments standing in her way, she was aware that there was no point in pining over how things might have been. The fact of the matter was that she had irreparably damaged Fenris and, whatever her personal feelings might be, her emotions were weightless and insignificant until all the threats to his wellbeing were removed. Then, and only then, could things be settled.

When Orana came to summon Hawke to breakfast, it was entirely welcome. She’d had enough of waiting and was ready to move on with the day. Leaping up off the bed, Hawke made her way to the door to her mother’s room, lifting her hand to knock.

“I wouldn’t disturb him, yet,” Orana whispered before Hawke could rap her knuckles against the door. “I’ve only just delivered some clothing for him to wear instead of that horrid, bloodstained armour and it may take a moment for him to dress.”

Hawke turned, cocking her head slightly to the side. “Where did you find men’s clothing?”

Orana looked slightly embarrassed as she replied, “They are some of Serrah Anders’ old clothes.”

Hawke let out a little bark of laughter, shaking her head slightly as she began to descend the stairs. “Well, that will make them both very happy, I’m sure.”

“Did I…do wrong?” asked Orana cautiously.

“Oh not at all,” Hawke assured her. “You did just right, Orana.”

Orana sighed with relief; she had always, through all her years as a servant rather than a slave, retained much of her old mentality. Hawke wondered if there was anything she could have done to foster greater independence in Orana during their time together; she had never really considered it before.

The breakfast room, tucked on the side of the kitchen, had originally been intended for the use of servants. Even so, it was in that room where Hawke had always taken the majority of her meals. The dining room was beautiful and opulent, but it seemed downright cavernous at times and there were few things that Hawke found more depressing than sitting at the head of an empty table and staring down at the lines of empty chairs that would never be filled with family or loved ones. It was better, she had always felt, to sit at the small, square table just off from the clatter and activity of the kitchen. It was a pleasant enough room and the furniture, though hardly ornate, was good quality. That morning, Hawke slid into one of the two benches that sat beside the pinewood table and waited for Fenris with some fluttering in her stomach. She had never waited for someone in that room before and, though it seemed silly even to her, she felt herself becoming eager to see him after what seemed a long separation.

Leaning back against the paneled wall behind her, Hawke tried to dismiss the foolish butterflies that beat their wings incessantly inside of her. She took a deep breath, sighing, and turning her eyes towards the fire that had been lit on the humble hearth. The room itself was quite confined and even a small fire heated it effectively even in winter. As Hawke felt the warmth wash over her, the sore muscles of her body relaxed pleasantly. Absently, her eyes wandered to the windows that were covered with gauzy curtains. Outside, she could see that the weather was fair and the sun was bright and warm. She could feel its heat upon her face and, sighing contentedly, she closed her eyes and let her head loll back against the wall.

Hawke lifted her head when she heard the door open and, seeing Fenris, a portion of the smile she was suppressing crept onto her face. He was frowning, clearly less than pleased with the clothes that Orana had given him that morning. Mercifully, she had not given him any mage’s robes, but the fact remained that Anders’ clothes were still much too large for an elf. They seemed to only be held on Fenris’ body by a very determined belt. Though it was, he supposed, better than wearing his armour which needed repairs and cleaning desperately, Fenris was decidedly displeased with the attire. Still, he felt some of his displeasure leave him when he saw her expression. When she smiled, it was as she always did: as if she had been waiting for only him and his company pleased her beyond measure. Her eyes were always bright when they fell on him and her lips seldom failed to turn up into a smile. Without complaining about how stupid he felt clad in oversized clothes that were, to his mind, rather too boldly colored, Fenris sat beside Hawke on the bench. Aware that the female servant was present, he consciously tried to maintain an appropriate amount of space between Hawke and himself as he took his seat. It was, in actuality, too close for polite company and, as Hawke sat fully upright and shifted infinitesimally closer to Fenris, Orana’s eyes widened ever so slightly as she excused herself to bring them their meal.

Already, there was a teapot on the table and two delicate porcelain cups with finely crafted saucers. “How did you sleep?” Hawke asked, reaching towards the teapot and pouring its steaming contents into Fenris’ cup and then her own.

“Very well,” he told her with a slight nod. “I’ve never slept in a bed of that size alone; not to my recollection, in any case. It was strangely satisfying to have the liberty to consume as much space as I chose.”

Hawke’s smile broadened. “I know what you mean. Cream or sugar? A bit of lemon or honey?”

He looked surprised by the non sequitur. “Pardon?”

“Your tea,” she said, gesturing to the cup that sat on the table before him. “How do you take it?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” he told her with a faint smile. “I suppose I’ll have to trust your judgment when it comes to the appropriate preparation of hot beverages.”

“Alright,” she said slowly. “I suppose… do you like sweet things?”

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Very much.”

“Alright,” she said quietly. “Would you hand me the sugar?”

Obligingly, he reached for the sugar bowl and handed it to her. As he held it for her, Hawke used the small silver spoon to bring several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into Fenris’ cup before leaning across him slightly to stir the tea until the crystals dissolved. As she did so, she could feel his eyes upon her and hear the quiet sound of his breathing. When she sat upright once more, a blush had fallen across her cheeks. “That might be too sweet,” she murmured, “but we can make adjustments and improve on it until we find out what you like.”

“Thank you, Hawke,” he said, his gaze lingering for a moment on her timid smile before he took the teacup into his hands and sipped from it. She waited for his reaction, watching the flickering of appreciation across his face before turning her attention to her own tea. After no more than a few sips, diligent Orana reappeared and began bringing out several heaping plates of food to the table. Hawke thanked her, eyeing the vast quantities of food hungrily; it had been ages since she’d eaten these well-seasoned breakfast sausages or had a bite of Orana’s delightful honeyed rolls.

She and Fenris each ate greedily, their manners falling by the wayside as they indulged in the first good meal they’d had in ages. On more than one occasion, Hawke found that she was chewing with her mouth gaping open and her lips smacking loudly with every bite. She felt better, however, about this breach of civility when she glanced over at Fenris and saw that he was eating with the same abandon. Her mouth full of bread, she smiled to herself before washing back her breakfast with a large gulp of tea.

In spite of their deep hunger, it wasn’t long before both of them were full. There was only so much of it that they could take in before the walls of their stomachs ached, straining under the pressure of the sudden influx of food. Hawke leaned back against the wall once more, groaning slightly from the discomfort of having eaten so much. “So,” she began, rubbing her hand across her abdomen, “we have to deal with this whole business with the slavers today.”

He nodded, leaning back on the wall beside her and turning his head in her direction. “What do you propose we do?”

“Well,” she said, “we should go to our friend, Aveline, before we do anything else. She’s Captain of the City Guard and there’s a chance that she might know a thing or two about what the slavers have been up to in Kirkwall these last couple weeks. She might also have a spare moment to come with us while we go to check on the condition of your home. In the event that there’s been some trap laid for us there, it would be nice not to be entirely on our own. And… if she can’t help, then we can always cross our fingers and pray that one of Varric’s contacts has some information.” Sighing, she massaged her temples with her fingertips, eyes closing for a moment. “The sooner we can get this over with, the sooner we can get you home safe and sound.”

“Are you so eager to be rid of me?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

Looking over at him, she shook her head. “Hardly. I just want this settled so you can get back to living your life. I’m tired of picking up loose ends when all I want to do is move forward. But apparently these damn mages just do not seem willing to let things go.” She sighed heavily. “I can see why you hate us.”

“Not all of you,” he murmured, his voice low and his smile softening. Her heart shuddered, seeming to stop abruptly before restarting at a staggering gallop.

Hawke cleared her throat, looking away from him. “So,” she said, her voice sounding oddly gruff, “Should we… get ready to go?”

She heard him sigh with what she could only assume was frustration; she could understand that sentiment. It was getting exhausting to always be turning away from him in exactly the moments when she least wanted to. “Very well,” he said, rising from the table and extending his hand to help her do the same.

In her room, Hawke found that Orana was putting the finishing touches on a bath. The elf informed her that she’d also prepared a bath for Fenris and asked if there was anything else that she could do for them. “Actually yes, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Hawke, beginning to slip from her clothes in preparation for bathing. “If you could run into the market and buy some nice, elf-sized clothes for Fenris, then I know he’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, Mistress,” said Orana, bowing her head and beginning to take her leave.

She was already almost out the door before Hawke called, “And Orana? You can call me Hawke. If you’d like to.”

Unsteadily, Orana nodded, leaving the room hurriedly and closing the door gently behind her.

When she was alone, Hawke climbed into the bath and sunk down into the warm, foaming waters. It was the first warm bath that she’d had in ages and, though the water seemed scalding at first, it wasn’t long before her body adjusted and gave in to the comfort of the bath. Leaning back and resting her head on the rim of the tub, Hawke smiled to herself, thinking that she’d be glad to spend the entire day stewing there. Of course, there were far more important things to attend to than her personal hygiene. She couldn’t linger too long and leave Fenris waiting for her for hours. He would not, she imagined, need as long to scrub clean as she would; after all his hair was cropped closer than hers and he would not need as much time to work the accumulated oils out of it. It was, she realized a mere moment later, an unfortunate time to be imagining Fenris bathing. It was ill-advised for her to think of him in the next room, every bit as naked as she, and sighing from the soothing warmth of the water as he dipped back beneath its surface, rinsing the last remains of soap from his soft, glossy hair. It really was not the time to be thinking of the rivulets of water coursing down his bare shoulders as he leaned back against the wall of the tub, lifting leanly muscled arms from the water as he brushed the hair back from his face. She shouldn’t be thinking of him methodically running his hands over his skin until his body was perfectly clean. Until he’d taste pristine as she ran her tongue over his exposed skin, sliding into the tub with him and reaching below the water’s surface to run her own hands across his hardening cock as he pulled her into his arms, kissing her fiercely and—

Hawke opened her eyes, shaking her head and forcing herself to think of anything else. She had to remain focused on the task at hand rather than allowing herself to be carried away on perverted flights of fancy. Besides, her more lascivious thoughts of him were always colored with trace amounts of guilt. She didn’t deserve that liberty and, though it was only within her imagination, she still felt that she was taking advantage of him somehow by imagining him in compromising situations. Still, even her guilt and conscience were struggling to fully overcome the ever-present desire she felt. It was the sort of wanting and desire that she’d never truly known before. An urge not only to possess his body, but to give herself to him fully. Her body was beginning to ache with the constant effort of restraining herself and not giving her heart, her soul, and her body to him when every part of her was already his in its entirety. She had already ceded control of her fate to him and she was becoming impatient to see what her fate would hold, though she could certainly hazard a very grim guess.

Hawke could sense Fenris’ growing impatience as well, though she supposed that his was not of precisely the same sort as her own. Still, it was evident that he was eager to leave this dance behind. She would have been hard-pressed to ignore the heat that shone in his eyes when he looked in her direction or the way his voice grew tender at times when they spoke. She could sense his eagerness, sense the increase in the frequency of the times when he would lean closer to her, eyes flickering to her lips and the warmth of his body mounting. She had no fear that he would lean those last few inches forward and actually touch his lips to hers; Fenris, she knew, would not press things further between them until she made her desire explicit to him. What troubled her was how very close she was coming to giving him the permission that he so plainly wanted from her. The only precaution that she could take was to expedite this process as much as possible. Waiting and wanting were doing neither of them much good.

Grumbling to herself, she rose from the tub and wrung out her hair before stepping out of the water and wiping herself dry with one of the soft, white towels that Orana had left for her. Hawke had forgotten about so many of these little luxuries of home, but she did not allow herself to dwell long on that comfort before she walked to her armoire and chose a fresh robe that had not been sullied by her dirty skin that morning. As she put herself together, Hawke became aware of the fact that she had the foolish little desire to look pretty. She arranged her hair with special care, dusted tinted powder across her thin, hollowed cheeks, and attempted to conceal some of the dark, purpling circles that had appeared beneath her eyes during her months of weariness. Hawke even rubbed her lips with colored oils, scrubbing with her fingertip in an effort to lift away some of the rough, chapped skin. When she drew back from the mirror, looking at herself, she saw that she was much improved from the morning. Smiling, she toyed with a lock of her hair. In her reflection, she observed the nervous, girlish gesture and felt a sick squirming within herself. “This is stupid,” she muttered, lifting the back of her hand and wiping away the color that she had dabbed on her lips. “Idiot,” she scoffed, turning away from the mirror and leaving her room.

She had a reasonable hope that Orana had been able to get to a vendor and back by this point and that Fenris would be clothed. After a moment of hesitation outside of his door, she knocked lightly. He called for her to come in, but she still held one of her hands over her eyes as she entered. “Are you decent?” asked Hawke.

“I would hardly have called you in if I weren’t,” he replied flatly.

Having received this assurance, she lowered her hand and then saw immediately why he had sounded so put out. Though the clothes Orana had purchased were plainly made for an elf and fit his body well, it was clear that they were not at all to his taste. The trousers he wore, simple and gray, were not altogether a departure from his usual color palette, but the vibrant green shirt he wore left him shifting with discomfort as she stared at it. Really, the color might not have been that unfortunate had the fabric not been quite so shiny. “You look… colorful,” said Hawke, deciding that it would be indelicate to laugh and fighting the impulse valiantly.

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” he grumbled, glaring down at the shirt as though it had done something incredibly offensive. “Though I appreciate your Orana’s efforts, there’s every chance that my armour would be less conspicuous than this.”

“It’s not bad,” she said, her lips trembling with a suppressed smile. “You look handsome.”

Fenris’ glower intensified. “You don’t honestly believe that.”

“No,” she conceded with a small shrug. “But the green does bring out your eyes.” Her tone held no stifled laughter or hint of mocking as she added gently, “And they are very pretty eyes.”

Her words had been sufficient to soften his expression. “Thank you, Hawke,” he muttered. Now that his slight embarrassment had been somewhat mollified, Fenris allowed himself to take in Hawke’s appearance with a slow, careful glance. She said nothing to stem his appraising look, but she felt herself becoming increasingly aware of his gaze with each passing heartbeat. At last, his eyes returned to hers. “I see you’ve found some clothes not stained with blood,” he commented, his voice having grown slightly husky as though he were forcibly restraining himself from saying something else.

“You noticed,” she said, managing to sound almost light and amused. “So, now that we’re more or less fit to be seen in public, what do you say to venturing out into the city?” He nodded and, when Hawke left the room, he trailed obligingly after her.

They had scarcely made it down the stairs before her mabari came bolting forward from the fireside, making it very clear with a series of barks that he was intent upon joining them. It seemed that his long separation from his mistress had left the dog resistant to her renewed departure. Hawke instructed Brutus to behave well once they were outside of the home, but they had been in the streets of Hightown for less than a minute before he was tearing off ahead of them, wildly following any smell that caught his interest and hurtling into pedestrians at random. Hawke laughed, calling for the dog when he grew too rambunctious, but otherwise allowing his rowdy misbehavior. “He’s been cooped up for too long,” she observed to Fenris. “I know that I shouldn’t let him make such a spectacle of himself, but I’m feeling a bit guilty for having left him alone.”

“He seems to have forgiven you, in any case,” Fenris said as Brutus came forward happily and offered Hawke a small wooden doll that he had snatched from a small child.

Hawke smiled, chiding the mabari gently and telling him to bring the toy back to its owner. Grudgingly, he trotted off back to the doll’s owner before darting off to chase a small bird that had flown across his path. As she and Fenris walked toward Viscount’s Keep, Hawke kept a casual eye on Brutus while pointing out various things about Hightown that might be of interest to Fenris. Mostly, she shared personal anecdotes, indicating the places where they’d been ambushed in the past and filling him in on the locations of other landmarks of note, like the Chantry and the more reputable vendors. Fenris walked on at her side, saying little, but happy enough to listen to her speak. She seemed to take pleasure in reacquainting him with this city that had, for a time, served as his home. Fenris enjoyed watching the subtle changing of her expressions as she spoke. He was consumed enough by her pleasant, inconsequential chatter that he scarcely noticed as the eyes of the passersby trailed after him and Hawke, watching them with satirical expressions.

Hawke pretended not to notice the occasional odd looks that came their way, but she did notice with a slight pain. Though the wealthy citizens of Hightown had come to grudgingly accept her presence with time, they had always resented the fact that Fenris was allowed to live amongst them. Had it not been for Aveline’s intervention, they would have cast him from their elite settlement the moment they became aware that he’d taken up in the mansion that had been left vacant. The withering stares that they sent in his direction alerted her to the fact that they would have preferred that the elf stay away. Hawke hoped that, with persistent enough blathering and relentless enthusiasm, she would be able to distract Fenris from the blatant staring that the more bold Hightown citizens sent in his direction. She might very well have been entirely successful in that endeavor had not one particularly rude woman scoffed as they walked by and said, just loudly enough for them to hear, “Seems like they’re letting anyone into Hightown these days.”

In that moment, Hawke would have liked very much to break the woman’s face with her fist. She’d politely tolerated such aspersions about herself throughout her many years as a lowly denizen of Lowtown, but she was damned if she was going to let a pretentious, arrogant hag make Fenris feel for one moment that he wasn’t worthy to walk among them. But she didn’t need to pummel someone in order to assure Fenris that he belonged; instead, smiling up at him, Hawke lightly linked her arm around his, pulling him closer to her side. Looking down at her, he smiled softly while she leaned her head against him, nuzzling slightly into his shoulder. He hadn’t needed her to console him over some aristocrat’s sniping, but he was pleased that she did so. It was gratifying whenever her thoughts turned to him and gratifying whenever he was reminded of his own prominence within her mind. Fenris didn’t let her see him smiling, but held her tightly to him as they began to climb the steps to Viscount’s Keep.

Within the Keep, the structure was much as Hawke remembered it though the atmosphere was much changed from what it had been during her early years in Kirkwall. The steady yammering of people waiting impatiently to see the viscount had ceased, understandably, when Dumar had died. Since then, Hawke had witnessed the steady increase of Templars positioned throughout the center of the city’s power. During her time away, their numbers had continued to increase and, as she and Fenris mounted the staircase that led to Aveline’s office, Hawke found that she was clutching more tightly to his arm. The vast number of Templars could only mean that a new viscount had not yet been selected and that Meredith’s control of the city was still steady. In spite of the fact that Meredith had allowed Hawke to exist as an apostate for this long, the idea of the Templars and the Chantry wielding so much power within the city still made Hawke nervous. The more time that wore on without the selection of a new viscount, the more firm Meredith’s hold on Kirkwall would become. The nobility, it seemed, had no vested interest in seeing this matter resolved. Their power and their riches were still secure and it was not their friends being branded or their children being stolen away from their families. And it would keep happening. Bowing her head slightly, Hawke led Fenris along through a sea of Templars and guardsmen.

Outside of Aveline’s office, Hawke plastered her face with a chipper smile and, sliding her hand from Fenris’ forearm to clasp his hand, said brightly, “Alright, here we are. Are you ready to meet old friends?” He nodded and Hawke burst through Aveline’s door without troubling herself to knock.

Hearing the door bang open, Aveline looked up with a start. She’d been seated behind her desk, doing some of the paperwork that was required of a Guard-Captain, and had allowed her mind to wander to more pleasant, less tedious matters when Hawke suddenly appeared in her doorway with the elf beside her.

Hawke’s broad smile became genuine as she saw the awe on Aveline’s face as she stared at them, rising slowly from her desk. Dropping Fenris’ hand, Hawke rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the shocked redhead. “Aveline!” exclaimed Hawke. “I didn’t realize just how much I missed you until exactly this moment.” It was true. From the moment they’d first met, Hawke had always admired Aveline. She had a strength and resilience, both physically and mentally, that Hawke had always envied. Aveline never wavered in her convictions and her forthright honesty reminded Hawke of how her father had been. How she would have liked to be. Hawke stepped back from Aveline, still grinning as the Captain of the Guard looked from her to Fenris with astonishment.

“Hawke,” Aveline managed to say at last, “you found him.” Her eyes remained on Fenris, staring at him as if she were staring at a ghost.

He shifted his weight a bit awkwardly. “Hello, Aveline.”

Aveline looked back at Hawke, furrowing her brow. Once or twice, she opened her mouth as though she were unsure of what to say. Hawke, however, interceded, thinking it best to preemptively cut off anything too revealing that Aveline might have to say. “He’s lost some of his memories,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “So don’t be offended if he’s missing some pieces as to who you are; he doesn’t remember me either.”

Dawning comprehension crossed Aveline’s face and, slowly, she nodded at Hawke, before turning to Fenris. “Well, I’m glad you’re alive and well, in any case,” she said, striding over to him and shaking his hand firmly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Fenris.” He nodded, smiling in response, and looking a bit uneasy when he glanced from Aveline to Hawke as if he were looking for some cue as to proceed.

Ultimately he just said, “Thank you,” and looked towards the floor.

Sensing his evident uncertainty, Aveline left Fenris and moved over to her desk once more, leaning back on the edge of it while she began to address Hawke. “I look forward to hearing all about your adventures,” she said, her tone calm though her eyes let Hawke know that their conversation would not merely be about adventures and heroism. “My husband will be pleased to hear that you succeeded; for a moment there, we were almost concerned.” Then growing a bit stern, she added, “You know, you might have said goodbye, Hawke. I must say that I’m a little offended that I wasn’t even asked to come along on your crusade.”

Shrugging, Hawke replied, “We could have used your help, believe me, but I knew that, if I told you what I was planning, you’d be too tempted to abandon your post and come along with me. And we couldn’t have that, could we?” More earnestly, she added, “This city needs you, Aveline. Sometimes I think you may just be the last sane person in Kirkwall.”

“There are times when I’d have to say that I agree with you on that,” admitted Aveline with a half-smile. “So, what can I expect to contend with as the aftermath of your quest, Hawke? Knowing you, you’ve managed to incite the fury of every last magister in the Imperium and you’ll soon have their wrath bearing down upon us.”

“Something like that,” Hawke chuckled, folding her arms over her chest. “Though there’s only one magister, as I understand it. But he’s brought some men with him. I assume you’ve been getting reports of increased slaver activity, yes?”

Aveline nodded. “More of my men have been coming back to me reporting on run-ins with slavers,” she said. “And not just around the docks or Darktown, either. A few of my guards stationed around Hightown have seen slavers moving about in small numbers as if they’re on patrol.” She glance towards Fenris and added darkly, “Now that I know that you two have returned, I think I can make some assumptions as to just what they’re after.”

“So you can understand why I want to deal with them as swiftly and finally as possible,” Hawke said, her eyes narrowing.

“I’ve never much approved of vigilantism,” Aveline began, “but I think I can see the merits of it in this case.” She addressed Fenris as she continued. “You didn’t run into any trouble in your home last night, did you?”

He shifted. “Hawke kept me under her protection last night,” he answered. “I have yet to return to my home.”

“I figured we were better off sticking together,” Hawke interjected. Aveline was studying her expression carefully and Hawke could feel her heart fluttering as she suffered the scrutiny. She could sense Aveline’s confusion as she tried to discern exactly how it had come to pass that Fenris and Hawke had become so amicable. “Until all of this is resolved,” she murmured, averting her gaze from Aveline’s, “I’ve asked Fenris to stay with me.”

“I see,” said Aveline slowly, looking from one to the other. She hadn’t failed to notice that they had entered the room holding hands or that, every few moments, Fenris looked to Hawke with an expression that was softer than anything she would have ever thought to see in his face. Perhaps she was not always the most adept at love, but she would have had to be blind to miss what was unfurling before her. “I’m afraid that I can’t offer much information when it comes to the whereabouts of the slavers,” she told them with a sigh. “I’ve had my guards on the alert and attempting to follow any slavers back to their base, but they’ve had no success so far. I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help, Hawke, but I’ll be more than happy to go along with you when you root out this sorry son-of-a-bitch.”

Hawke nodded. “Well, I suppose it all would have been too easy if you’d just been able to point to a spot on the map. There’s always Varric, in any case. Even though he’s been gone for months, I’m sure it won’t be more than a few days until he gets his fingers back on the pulse of the city.

Aveline smiled ruefully. “You’re right in that, Hawke. The dwarf certainly does seem to have a way of getting the information we need, doesn’t he? Though his methods may leave something to be desired.”

“Well, you can’t question the results,” replied Hawke with a shrug. “In any case, Fenris and I are planning to visit The Hanged Man later to see if Varric can get his hands on some useful information, but before we do that, we thought it might be prudent to go to Fenris’ mansion to make sure that it’s secure.” She smiled hopefully as she added, “Now, if you’re not too engrossed in your paperwork, we’d both really enjoy your company.”

As it so happened, Aveline was more than glad to take temporary leave from the stacks of office drudgery that awaited her attention. She walked alongside Hawke and Fenris, who now walked on with an appropriate berth between them, while Brutus, panting happily, trotted along at Aveline’s side. No longer did the mabari run about wildly or bombard passersby with sudden and excessive lickings. He remained even with Aveline’s strides, neither walking too far ahead of her or falling behind. “The dog’s mannerisms seemed to have improved in Aveline’s presence,” commented Fenris, looking down at the beast.

“That’s because Hawke thinks it’s funny when he misbehaves,” said Aveline sternly. “She forgets that even a clever beast needs boundaries.” She reached out, stroking the top of Brutus’ large, square head and he let out a bark of happy appreciation.

Hawke laughed. “Well, in the event of my unfortunate demise, I’ll entrust Brutus to your strict keeping.” She had been joking as she spoke the words and it was only as the last of them left her mouth that she realized that just such a thing may happen in the very near future. As that latter, darker thought occurred to her, she unconsciously drifted over until she was walking so close to Fenris that they were almost bumping into one another. This response had become almost a reflex that happened immediately whenever she thought of her own mortality. In those moments, it was comforting to remind herself of why it was that she kept on fighting towards that end.

Aveline caught sight of Hawke’s movements, seeing how she sought out Fenris and seeing how his eyes looked as they turned down towards her. Aveline shook her head and raised her brow, the slight clearing of her throat drawing Hawke’s attention. Aveline had not meant to do so, but she had made Hawke aware of the unconscious, automatic behavior she’d performed. Stepping away from Fenris, Hawke laughed nervously under her breath and began to walk more quickly.

Watching her walk away from him, taking the lead rather than remaining beside him, Fenris furrowed his brow. It was moments like these, when he was reminded of the forced distance between them, that he felt his frustration with her most intensely. Flexing his fingers tensely, he looked down at his feet as he trailed after her a bit bitterly. His feet her bare once more; Hawke had not insisted that he wear boots that morning and he had not taken the initiative of donning them on his own. It was not surprising, of course, that she had not forced the issue as she had done throughout their travels. After all, there was no snow on the ground and the day, though true spring had not yet arrived, was not especially cold. However, he felt a twinge of nostalgia as he looked down at his exposed toes against the paved walks of Hightown. The almost daily insistence that he wear his boots had become a familiar exchange and now that was changing along with everything else. He might have felt more at ease if he had known what they were going to change into, but Hawke was still keeping that information to herself.

He looked up from his feet when he heard Hawke’s voice saying, “And this is yours.”

“For the most part,” muttered Aveline.

Turning his eyes upwards, Fenris surveyed the façade of the building. He was not oblivious to the fact that it was decidedly grimier than the Hawke estate and that it seemed to project a general air of disuse and disrepair, but even with these faults, Fenris was relatively certain that it was among the most wonderful things he’d seen in his lifetime. It might have been shabby, but it was his. A place where he could go and do as he pleased without asking permission or offering apologies for transgressions. For all the times that he had imagined property of his own, the reality of it was still a pleasant shock. “So this is it then,” he said, his eyes filled with the wonder that he had managed to keep out of his voice.

Hawke smiled, beginning to fish around in one of her deep pockets as she said, “And, lucky for everyone, I have a key. I made a copy years ago, much to your displeasure. But now I can return this key to its rightful owner. Aha! Here we are.” She pulled the key triumphantly from her pocket and held it out to him.

Fenris struggled with the lock for a moment, unsure of which direction he was meant to turn the key, but when he felt the click of the bolt unlocking, it was a satisfaction greater than he could have envisioned.

“Alright,” murmured Hawke as they stepped over the threshold and into the foyer, “Let’s all be very wary and keep an eye out for anything that might suggest that someone’s been here.”

Fenris looked down, frowning slightly. “Well, there is a rotting skeleton beside the door. That might suggest that there’ve been visitors of a less then friendly nature.”

Hawke held back a laugh. “That’s, um, been there for years,” she told him. “It’s not the only one, either.” Fenris looked surprised and vaguely disgusted. “Don’t worry,” she added gently. “I can help you move them out before you move back in.”

“That would be appreciated,” he said, eyeing the pile of bones with distaste.

As they moved throughout the house, Fenris observed that there were indeed various other skeletons littered about. He wondered passingly if he had been the one to kill them and, though he meant to ask Hawke, he found that he forgot to as they wandered slowly throughout the estate looking for signs of disturbance. In spite of the corpses and the cobwebs and the general lack of comfort or amenities, this was better than Fenris would have hoped for. It was a large property, seeming to be roughly the same size as Hawke’s mansion. He had little to offer her, he knew, but he was discovering now that he had more than he had supposed. He had a home, at least, and she had promised to help him with the upkeep. Before long, he could make her comfortable there, playing the host while she made herself at ease under his roof. It was a pleasant notion and he allowed himself to entertain it as they swept through the rooms together.

In the end, they could make no definite pronouncements as to whether or not the house had been searched before their arrival. One of the disadvantages of keeping one’s house in a state of disorder was that it became a bit trickier to determine whether or not the place had been ransacked. Hawke did say, however, that she suspected someone had taken a cursory look around the place fairly recently. The cobwebs on the door were slightly less dense than those in other corners and there seemed to be a very faint trail of footprints through the dust. The footprints, however, were scarcely visible and, in fact, so difficult to see that they may as well have been a trick of the light. If someone had come, they had left no traps or spells in their wake and so it was not long before Hawke, Aveline, and Fenris emerged once more into the sunlight with Brutus snuffling along at their heels.

“I’ve enjoyed the break from my duties, Hawke,” said Aveline, rolling her head to the side and cracking her neck. “However, I have to finish my paperwork before the City Guard falls into disorder. The two of you will be able to visit Varric alone, won’t you?” She sheathed her sword, having kept it at the ready as they went through the mansion.

 “We’ll be fine,” Hawke assured her with a firm nod. “Thank you for coming along with us, by the way. Sorry that you didn’t get to put your weapons to good use.”

Aveline smiled. “It was satisfying just to stretch my legs.”

They bid farewell to each other, with Fenris and Aveline exchanging another handshake, before Aveline watched as the others turned and walked off towards Lowtown. Just before they left her earshot, she heard Hawke laughing merrily at something Fenris must have said and, before they rounded the corner and passed out of her sight, she saw their hands joining together once more. Aveline shook her head, already feeling an ominous sense of approaching trouble. She’d seen enough of the world to know when something was amiss, and there was most certainly something out of joint with the accord that Hawke and Fenris had come to.

In spite of Aveline’s trepidation, however, Hawke and Fenris were fairly at ease with one another as they made their way leisurely down towards The Hanged Man. It took a bit longer than it should have to reach the tavern, for they had wound around the city in a meandering, exploratory manner as neither objected to spending a large amount of time with the other. By the time they reached The Hanged Man, Brutus had almost worn himself out with running about and, as he had with Aveline, he trotted along at Hawke’s heels in a reasonably composed manner. When they entered the tavern, however, he did eagerly rush up the stairs to Varric’s quarters. Fenris and Hawke followed after him, finding that, by the time they reached the dwarf’s room, Brutus had made himself at home on the bed and was already being reprimanded.

“Hawke,” said Varric, turning to her, “would you make some effort to control your creature? He’s lost all respect for me since he beat me at one round of cards and now there’s nothing I can do to get him to obey.”

“Down, Brutus,” grinned Hawke. Snuffing indignantly, the mabari leapt from the bed.

“Thanks for that,” said Varric, shaking his head. Then, sitting languidly back in a chair, he added, “Now, I’ve got a bone to pick with you two. You all snuck off last night before I even had the chance to say goodbye. Now, Hawke, is that any way to treat a friend who’s been your loyal companion these many years?” He clucked his tongue, looking exceedingly disappointed in her.

“We were in a rush,” she told him. “I asked Corff if he’d heard any news and he told me that—”

“There’s a new magister in town,” interrupted Varric, nodding knowingly. “I’ve already heard, Hawke, and I’ve got people roving the streets looking for any news that might be helpful. You think I’m going to let the elf get snatched up again?”

Hawke smiled. “I should have known that you’d already have people on it. You are nothing if not an industrious snoop, Varric.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Hawke,” he said with a wink. “But even my people need time. I’ll check in with them in a bit and, if you come by tonight, I’ll let you know if I have any leads for you.”

She thanked him, assuring Varric that she’d be waiting for his information with baited breath. Even as she and Fenris left The Hanged Man, Hawke was already finding herself growing impatient. Still, keeping herself from fidgeting too frantically, she smiled and leaned back against the wall of the tavern, turning her attention to Fenris as he stood a few paces in front of her with the dog thumping down on the ground at his feet. “So… what do you want to do while we wait?” asked Hawke.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to keep her pressed against that wall as he cradled the back of her head with his hand and tilted her face upwards as her lips met his. He wanted to take her to a soft, wide bed and resolve all that had been left unfulfilled and unsatisfied for months. He wanted to feel as he had on that night in the woods when she had let him hold her. He’d like to relive those sensations—her body, her breath, her voice gasping in his ear. That was what he wanted. But he knew better than to say it. Knew that speaking of it would only make her eyes fill with that sadness that he hated to see in them. And so he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I haven’t got a preference, really. We can do as you see fit.”

Hawke nodded, looking off thoughtfully for a moment while she contemplated their options. “Well,” she ventured, “now that we know it’s more or less secure, we could go back to your house and pick up a few things you might need. You know, something for you to sleep in and maybe a shirt that’s less, well, green.”

He voiced no objections to such a plan and so it was not long before they found themselves once more within the musty depths of Fenris’ mansion. Though the express purpose of their expedition had been to gather together some of his old things, that mission fell by the wayside as they began, immediately after entering the foyer, to move the corpse that moldered there to the small courtyard that lay to the east of Fenris’ house. There were few pedestrians that passed through there and the growing pile of bodies went unseen as, room by room, Fenris and Hawke went through the mansion and cleared it of human refuse. It was only once all the bodies had been gathered that Hawke, cautioning Fenris to stand back, lit the pyre with a grease fire that burned a purplish blue from its great heat. “There,” said Hawke, smiling with some satisfaction. “Compared to that, a little dusting and sweeping is going to be nothing.”

Fenris stared at her blankly. “You’re not going to foist that on me now, are you?” he said, anticipatory dread creeping into his voice.

She shook her head, laughing lightly. “Given that we’ve already accomplished more in about an hour than we did during the many, many years that you’ve lived here, I think we’ve accomplished enough for one day.”

Fenris sighed with relief and they finally made their way up to his bedroom and began to peek through his dresser drawers for anything that might be serviceable. No more than a few moments had passed, however, before Hawke began to feel uneasy riffling through Fenris’ smallclothes and decided to leave the task entirely to him. While he selected various items of clothing from amongst his possessions, Hawke sat cross-legged on the foot of his bed with the large lute resting in her lap while she plucked lazily at the strings to entertain herself.

She had never learned to play, though her mother had tried to teach her, and Hawke’s strumming, though immensely entertaining to her, was less so to Fenris. After several long minutes, he glanced over his shoulder and grumbled, “If you’re going to keep doing that, please inform me at once so that I can slice my ears off.”

Grinning sheepishly, Hawke laid the lute aside. “Sorry, I never learned. My brother was the only one of us that bothered to learn to play anything and, if I’m being honest, I think he only did that to make the ladies swoon over him.” She rolled her eyes, the memory of Carver’s poorly written ballads echoing in her ears.

“Does that work?” asked Fenris, lifting one of his eyebrows.

Hawke laughed, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “There’s something about a man strumming his instrument and singing some tormented love song that women simply can’t resist.”

Fenris made a derisive noise, but, after he’d turned back to the dresser and rummaged around for a moment longer, he asked, “Would it work on you?”

“Are you offering?” she said hopefully, taking the lute up into her hands once more and holding it out to him.

Fenris looked back at her and, though he looked for a moment as if he were considering accepting it, he settled on scowling and saying flatly, “No.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying,” she said, returning the lute to its resting place beside her.

Though his back was turned, she could tell from the quick shake of his shoulders that he had laughed under his breath. Leaning forward slightly, she watched him as he knelt down on the floor, beginning to search the bottommost drawers. It was a strange experience to be in his home under these circumstances. She couldn’t remember a time in recent history that she had come here and had any interaction that hadn’t ended with shouting or sniping or curses spoken in a language that she didn’t understand. There had certainly never been a time when he’d allowed her to sit on his bed in this familiar way.

“Strange,” said Fenris, halting his search and lifting a small bundle that had been tucked between some spare sheets. Hawke watched, her brow furrowed, as Fenris rose from the ground and began to unwrap the fabric that had been bound around his discovery. The contents of the bundle, as it turned out, was a book bound in brown leather. Frowning slightly, Fenris began to flip through it, scanning its pages. As he did so, his expression changed.

“What is it?” asked Hawke, her muscles tense though her voice was calm.

“It… seems to be my journal,” he told her, sounding mildly surprised that he had actually stumbled across something of this nature. Hawke rose from the bed and walked towards him slowly with her heart beating painfully against her ribcage. She knew that the sudden shock of panic she’d experienced was unnecessary, but it was still taking her a moment to slow her heart rate to a reasonable pace. Still, whatever the diary said, the worst of who she was and what she’d done would not be in its pages. Soothing herself, she stood beside him, leaning back against the dresser and watching as he became immersed in reading the words that he had written. As he turned through the pages, she watched a slow smile spreading on his face.

“Is it proving amusing then?” she asked. Though the book was tilted in such a way that she could see the pages, the peculiar slant and miniscule size of Fenris’ lettering made it impossible for her to make out what he had written.

“Very much so,” he said, eyes still fixed on the page as he turned to the next one.

“Will you tell me what it says?” she asked, smiling at him in a way that she hoped was winning.

He met her winning smile with a smirk as he finally looked up at her. “It says you’re not allowed to read it,” he told her smugly. He pointed to the page with the tip of his finger and added, “I’ve been very specific about that. In fact, I seem to have gone on for the last five pages about how you off all people are not to read it and the various ways in which I will punish you in the event that you do.” He looked back at the page, the smirk still twisting his lips. “So, as you can imagine, I can hardly allow you to read it now.”

Hawke heaved an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. “Fine,” she grumbled, drawing out the word and giving it an improbable number of syllables. “Will you at least flip through it and see if you can find anything helpful? Maybe some mention of the contacts you used to find Danarius and Hadriana when you were in Kirkwall the first time around?”

He indulged her, flipping through the pages and meticulously scanning their contents. “No,” he said at last. “It seems to have a rather singular focus.”

“How much you hate me?” she said flatly, her shoulders slumping forward slightly.

Fenris looked over at her, his smile gone now. “Something like that,” he murmured, his voice low and his eyes full of that familiar warmth that never failed to flood her with a nervous thrill that flickered across her skin and trembled in the pit of her stomach. Looking up at him, Hawke remembered what Merrill had said while they were coming south from the Imperium. All those years had passed during which she had seen nothing of what he felt. All those years when he had returned to his room at nightfall and filled his notebook with thoughts of her. All those wasted years that could have been something more. Biting down harshly on the inside of her cheek, Hawke cleared her throat. “Let’s go home,” she said hoarsely. “I need to eat something.”

Fenris nodded, looking away from her, and gathered his clothes and the journal in his arms as they made their way out of his room.

The streets of Kirkwall were darkening as they made the short walk to Hawke’s home. The last of the residents were making their way back to their fine houses and only a few remaining servants were still scurrying around the streets, finishing off their errands for the day. With Fenris strolling along at her side, Hawke glanced at the diary beneath his arm and wondered what it would have been like if she’d fallen in love with him then. She wondered what would have happened if she had noticed what he kept hidden and if she had learned how to reciprocate. Maybe they could have helped each other to be whole. Maybe he would have been able to heal the wounds and scars that had made her heart so hard over the years. Maybe, when Danarius had come for him, they would have killed him together. Of course, that would have been impossible. She hadn’t wanted to change then and, if she had noticed how Fenris felt for her, then she only would have used that knowledge in some cruel, manipulative way. Still, as they walked beside one another and the hazy purple light of dusk draped over them, it was nice enough to imagine a blissful world in which he was happy and with someone who loved him as much as she did in that moment. He’d have that someday, she hoped. With someone.

When they arrived at Hawke’s mansion, they soon saw that Orana had gone to great lengths to create a comfortable environment for them in the event that they returned in time for supper. Nearly the moment that they came through the door, she whisked them away to the cozy room where they’d breakfasted. Sometime during their absence, Orana had set the table in a far more elaborate way than was typical. She’d laid a lace runner across the table as well as a small crystal bowl filled with small, brightly colored blossoms that must have come from the greenhouse. On either end of the table, she had also placed long, tapered candles that sent their golden light spilling over Hawke and Fenris as they took their seats. It was, Hawke thought, mildly embarrassing that Orana had taken such care in arranging the room for them, but she thanked her warmly nonetheless and praised the beauty of the table settings.

As she sat with Fenris, both of them enjoying the thick, wonderfully seasoned stew that Orana had prepared, Hawke found that the dim glow of the candles and the warmth emanating from the fire made it very easy for her mind to wander. She allowed herself to drift off into her own thoughts, letting the peace of this moment expand to fill a lifetime of dinners together and mornings spent waking in the same bed. Smiling, she leaned her head against his shoulder and watched the flame of one of the ivory candles as it danced. Fenris said nothing to break her trance, watching her tranquil expression as her eyes followed the flickering light. Slowly, not wanting to disturb her, he wrapped one of his arms around the small of her waist, resting it there almost weightlessly. They sat in this manner until Orana opened the door, asking if they needed anything else. The slight current of air created by the door caused the candle Hawke had been watching to gutter out and, the blissful spell of self-delusion broken, she laughed and told Fenris that they should probably be returning to The Hanged Man soon to see if Varric’s contacts had had success over the day. Each of them feeling a bit regretful, they rose from the table.

Hawke waited for Fenris at the foot of the stairs while he returned to her mother’s room, stashing away the items they’d gathered from his home. It took a bit longer than she would have expected and, when he emerged, Hawke noticed with a smile that he had taken the time to change out of the shirt that he’d had to wear throughout the day. The ostentatious green was now replaced by a simple black shirt that, though she’d never seen him wear it, looked like the sort of thing he might have worn about his house while he was alone. When he joined her at the foot of the stairs, she gave him a nod of approval. “You look like yourself,” she noted, beginning to walk towards the door.

“That is, I hope, a compliment.”

“It is,” she assured him, grinning broadly as they slipped out into the cool night air.

By the time they reached The Hanged Man, inhaling its pungent aromas for the second time that day, the usual clientele were swarming throughout the establishment. Varric, however, was not among their numbers. He was, however, waiting for them in his room with a large stein of ale already in his hand.

“Good to see you again, Hawke,” he said, lifting his stein to her in a toast. “My eyes and ears have picked up some information that I think you’ll find very relevant to your interests.”

Her face lit with a brilliant grin. “Oh, Varric, I knew you were good for something,” she said.

He chuckled gamely. “Not good for much, Hawke, but I am a man with resources. And my sources tell me that we’re going to have to take another little trip to the Bone Pit.”

Hawke’s face fell. “Honestly? That place is a sucking vortex of problems.”

Varric nodded. “If I’d have to guess, I’d say that that’s why they chose it. After all the trouble that’s gone on there, the place has developed such a reputation that only someone with a very serious death wish would go there.” Shrugging, he added, “And since you seem to be the only person that crazy, their hide out’s pretty much secure from everyone except their target.” He took a sip of his ale. “Not a bad base, really. Let’s give the magister his due.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure that he gets everything that’s coming to him,” said Hawke darkly, an almost gleeful glint entering her eyes. “Tomorrow we’ll pay the Magister a visit and end this once and for all.”

“That’s the plan,” grinned Varric. “I hope you intend to take me with you, Hawke. I’ve seen too much of this saga to miss the final battle.”

She nodded. “I plan on bringing along everyone I can get my hands on. I want this one over swiftly and painfully.” Turning to Fenris, she added, “The final honors, of course, will be yours. If you’re interested.”

When he smiled, baring his teeth, she could almost see the wolf for which he had been named coming through in his expression. “I am indeed,” he replied. “I look forward to ending this.”

“One more day,” Hawke said with an air of finality. To Varric, she bowed her head and added, “And thank you, Varric. Everything that you’ve done…. Well, it’s meant the world to me.”

“You know, Hawke, you could always make it up to me with a pint,” he told her with a smile. “This one’s almost drained.” He looked down at the stein in his hand, sloshing the last drops of it around.

Hawke laughed. “Well, I suppose you’ve earned it,” she conceded

Downstairs, while Varric went to claim the large, circular table that always seemed to open up miraculously whenever he needed to make use of it, Hawke and Fenris made their way towards the bar. Though it was a minor annoyance to elbow through the crowd to order directly from Corff, it was the only way to guarantee that the right drinks would be delivered; Norah, lovely woman though she was, had a habit of mixing up orders. Once Hawke had finally flagged down Corff’s attention, she turned to Fenris and asked, “Would you like anything? I know that you’re not much in the habit of drinking anymore, but what do you say to a celebratory pint of ale? Or maybe some wine?”

“You won’t be drinking, will you?” he asked slowly, lifting one of his eyebrows.

“Well, I had considered it,” she replied dryly. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

He shook his head. “I was only preparing myself for what’s sure to come. The last time I witnessed you sampling wine, you began muttering incoherently in Qunlat and needed to be carted off to bed.”

Hawke smiled sheepishly. “Well, I’ll try to behave myself this time,” she assured him. “I’ll at least try to remain sober enough to stumble into bed without assistance.” Turning back to Corff, who had been waiting for her order, she asked for three pints of ale and a bottle of wine.

When their drinks came, Hawke instructed Fenris to help her carry them and they made their way back to where Varric waited. He had remained standing and kept doing so until Fenris and Hawke had sat down beside one another. Varric then positioned himself in a chair two full seats away from Hawke. It was close enough to engage in conversation if the occasion were to call for it, but deliberately far enough away so that he wouldn’t be interrupting their conversation or drawing too much attention to himself. At first, it seemed that Hawke was making a conscious effort to include Varric in the conversation, but as she and Fenris began to drain their first pints of ale, Varric felt himself becoming superfluous. Their eyes turned to him less and less frequently, they oriented their bodies so that they faced each other exclusively, and, as they leaned in and spoke to each other in hushed voices, their smiles flashed across their faces like lightning brightening the darkness.

Though Varric was, on occasion, distracted by a flitting acquaintance that would pass by him in order to say hello, he found himself largely immersed in watching Hawke and Fenris. He tried to memorize their expressions, making note of all that passed between them so that he might record it faithfully when he had the time. Varric was engaged in this enterprise and engrossed to the extent that, when Aveline arrived and placed her hand on his shoulder, he jerked from the shock of it. “Aveline, there you are!” he exclaimed, rising from his chair. “I was beginning to think that the Captain of the Guard didn’t have time for fun and frivolity at the local watering hole.” Turning to her companion, he added, “And Donnic as well. My, you _are_ letting your hair down.”

“There’s no need to sound so surprised, Varric,” she said, frowning indignantly. “I have, on many occasions, been known to leave the house with my husband.”

“True enough, Guard-Captain,” owned Varric, nodding with acknowledgement, “but you’re usually dressed in armour.”

“I do feel a bit naked without it,” admitted Aveline, shifting slightly as if she feared that, by taking off her armour, she’d essentially guaranteed that someone would attack her unexpectedly.

“But you look beautiful,” whispered Donnic, leaning closer to her and lightly kissing her cheek. Her fair, freckled skin blushed a deep red as she smiled at her husband.

It was roughly around that time when Hawke’s eyes wandered from Fenris for a moment and she caught sight of the new arrivals. “That’s Donnic there with Aveline,” she informed Fenris, pointing them out to him. “I’ve mentioned him before. You’re friends.”

Fenris glanced at them uncertainly and then back at Hawke. “Should I…?”

Hawke smiled at him gently. “Why don’t you go and say hello while I grab us both another pint?” Both standing, they separated reticently. Hawke watched him from the bar with a wistful smile on her lips. It was gratifying to watch the exchange. Donnic and Fenris were neither of a particularly loquacious nature, but Donnic was smiling as he shifted a bit uncertainly and, in one way or another, they somehow wound up in an awkward hug of manly camaraderie that always contained an element of pummeling the back of the other participant. Fenris looked startled when he was released from the hug and Donnic looked a little embarrassed about what had just occurred. Still, both men were smiling reservedly.

Shortly after Hawke had sat back down at the table, Fenris returned to her. “So we will, apparently, be engaging in some recreational gambling at my home in the near future,” he told her. “I fully expect to lose, given that I have no memory as to how games of any kind are played.”

“It could still be fun though,” said Hawke, rather optimistically. “It’s good for you. Once all this business is settled, you’ll need people in your life who will be there for you.”

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling crookedly.

She smiled. “I’m here for as long as you want me,” she muttered, biting her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything more.

Though she could not hear a word of what they said to one another, Aveline could see the look on Hawke’s face as she spoke. She could see their bodies inclining towards each other as if they were being pulled together by some irrevocable force. She saw it and, when she exchanged a look with Donnic, she knew that he saw it too. And it worried her. “Varric?” she muttered, leaning in close to the dwarf’s ear as she took a seat beside him. “Do you think this is wise?”

“Spending every night among depraved drunkards? Probably not,” he shrugged.

She narrowed her eyes, glowering. “You know what I’m talking about, dwarf,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Surely you knew that it was ill-advised to allow this to happen.”

He turned to her, shrugging his shoulders. “It was too late before any of us saw it coming for us. There was no way of stopping these kids before it happened and Andraste be damned if I’m going to stop them now.” He shook his head, his smile fading as he added gravely, “There’s no happy ending, Aveline. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about that now.”

Aveline sighed, leaning back in her chair and gazing off at the ceiling as if, somehow, it held the answers she wanted. “I’m sure you did the best you could, Varric,” she said at last. “Though I shudder to think what will become of her when he finds out what she’s done.”

Varric shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like it’ll turn out well for either of them, does it?” he said, taking a swill of his ale. “Still, it was almost beautiful for a moment there.” From across the table, they heard Hawke laughing, her voice light and joyful.

She caught Anders’ attention then. He had just come through the entrance as she laughed, her happiness seeming to radiate outwards. Anders had come only to speak with Varric and he had not thought of finding her there that night. If he had expected to see her, then he would never have imagined seeing her as she was then. Her eyes glittered as her smile flashed bright teeth and she reached out, resting her fingertips on the elf’s arm. Clenching and unclenching his fist repeatedly, Anders approached the table and sat in the vacant chair beside her.

It was a moment before Hawke noticed him and it would have been a moment longer if she had not seen the look of mild confusion crossing Fenris’ face as the watched the new addition to their party glowering at the both of them. Furrowing her brow, Hawke turned to what it was that Fenris was looking at. “Anders,” she breathed, feeling suddenly cold.

“Anders,” echoed Fenris, comprehension and bitterness entering his tone.

“Fenris,” said Anders, inclining his head slightly by way of an almost civil greeting. “Always a pleasure to see your scowling face in our midst. Though I must say that you’re looking much less dour than usual.” He paused for a moment, looking pointedly from Fenris to Hawke. “I wonder why that is.”

“Anders,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “would you like to have this conversation with me privately?”

“There’s no need for that, is there?” said Anders innocently. “I’m just marveling at the fact that a healthy, _honest_ relationship has done such wonders for his demeanor.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes, rising from her seat. “Anders,” she said firmly. “We’re _going_ to discuss this privately.” She had already begun to walk towards a distant corner before he could voice any objections. Casting one last bitter glance at Fenris, Anders rose and trailed after her.

When he reached the corner, her arms her folded across her chest. Though her face was stern, her voice quavered as she asked, “Do you want to hurt me?”

“Do you want to hurt yourself?” he replied sharply. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Allowing yourself to develop some twisted fascination with someone that hates you and everything that you are? What do you think he’d do if I had told him what you’ve done, Elena? Do you think that he’ll keep doting on you then?” He leaned closer to her as he spoke, speaking so quickly that his stream of furious questions almost blurred together. “ _I_ love you and you’re throwing that away for _him_?” Anders gestured towards Fenris with an almost frantic flailing of his arm.

“Please stop,” she said, her voice trembling. “I loved you the best way I knew how. Please don’t make me regret that.”

He stepped forward, seeming to loom over her. “I could tell him now, you know, and he’d kill you before you could draw another breath. You know that, don’t you?”

“Please stop it, Anders,” she murmured, looking towards the floor. She was shaking, he saw, and when she spoke her voice had been barely steady. She knew, as did he, that he could put an end to her ghastly charade with Fenris with no more  than a few fleeting words. That would be all it took to end it. And, when Anders looked down at Hawke, trying and failing to keep herself from trembling, he knew that that would be all it took to destroy her.

Lightly, he placed his fingers beneath her chin and turned her face towards his. In her eyes, he saw a nakedness and vulnerability that had not been in them in years. The sort of vulnerability that comes with having something beloved that would be devastating to lose. She was a fool. A fool to think that Fenris was anything more than a beast and a fool to have allowed herself to believe that a bigoted elf had anything but suffering to offer her. She was a fool… but he couldn’t destroy her.

He shook his head. “You’ll regret this, Elena,” he said bitterly. “And, when you do, I won’t be there to help you. You’ve got to learn to live with the choices you’ve made.” He turned and walked swiftly up the staircase to Varric’s quarters. Her eyes lingered there long enough for her to see Varric follow him shortly thereafter.

Hawke was still shaking as she stood in the corner. For a moment, she’d believed that he would tell Fenris. Out of spite or out of jealously, Anders could have ruined everything just when she was mere hours away from resolving everything and having the chance to tell Fenris in the manner that he deserved to hear it. Anders hadn’t, but the threat still made her heart beat fast as she was reminded of the great precariousness of her situation. One false step or slip of the tongue could be the end. There was no guarantee that she would be allowed to choose the time and the place of the revelation. The sheer uncertainty of that situation and, when she returned to the table, she had just barely gotten her trembling under control. As she stood beside his chair, Fenris looked up at her with mingling confusion and concern. “Fenris,” she murmured, “take me home?”

He nodded slowly, rising from his chair and holding out his hand to her. She accepted it gratefully and, as he began to lead her from the table, she snatched the still full bottle of wine off the table and began to take deep gulps of it as they made their way towards Hightown.

By the time they reached her mansion, her cheeks were flushed from drink and she staggered slightly as he supported her with his arm around her waist. “It’ll be better tomorrow,” she murmured as Fenris began to guide her up the stairs. “It’ll be better because they’ll be dead and you’ll be alive.”

“With any luck,” he smiled, having begun to find some amusement in her increasingly disjointed ramblings.

As they stumbled to the top landing, Hawke stopped abruptly and looked up at him with limpid eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” she sighed, smiling and almost laughing. “Not… not beautiful like some people are beautiful... where it’s just the skin of them that’s pretty.” She reached out with a fumbling hand and opened the door to her bedroom and began staggering forward towards her bed. “But it’s all of you. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She tripped a little over her own feet and he caught her, lifting her up into his arms.

“Am I?” he laughed, feeling more pleased than he should have that her drunkenness had brought forth this embarrassing song of his praises that she’d never have spoken while sober. As he carried her towards the bed, he felt a twinge of gratitude towards the abomination for having made Hawke seek some solace in a bottle of wine. Fenris placed her gently on the bed and instructed her to get beneath the blankets. Clumsily, she burrowed down amongst them and sighed contentedly. “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him with slightly bleary eyes. “I swore you wouldn’t have to help me into bed.”

“I don’t mind,” he told her, shaking his head.

“I don’t mind either,” she said, reaching out and catching his hand in hers. “I’m glad that it’ll be you.” Closing her eyes, she yawned, but kept his hand clasped in her own. “Better than someone else, I think.” Her eyes fluttered partially open once more and she smiled dreamily up at him as she added. “My heart already belongs to you, you know, so… don’t feel sorry, alright? It’s yours for the taking. It’s….” She yawned again, her eyes closing, but this time, they did not flutter open once more. Her breath came heavily now and her jaw hung slack as she finally gave in to sleep.

He removed his hand from hers and, for a moment, stood looking down at her thoughtfully. Her murmured words were still ringing in his ears when he leaned forward and, just for a moment, pressed his lips to hers. “I belong to you as well,” he whispered, brushing her hair away from her face which was damp with dewy sweat. In her sleep, she sighed. Fenris stood upright once more and, shaking his head, left her then.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would ask her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) This took an oddly long time to write. I’m not sure why. Usually I write chapters in one sitting, but this one just wasn’t coming together for me. And then it just kept getting longer and longer! Seriously, it covers a less than 24 hour period. How did this happen to me? I was just left watching in horror as the word count kept growing and I was powerless to stop it. Oh well. Sorry for the wait and the absurd length. I’ll try to be more succinct next time and just get to the damn point already.
> 
> B) I’ve made additions to the Hawke estate. I mean, there’s got to be more to it than you see in the game because otherwise everyone would starve to death without a kitchen. I also added a few sundry furnishings to Hawke’s room. I figured that, since I’ve already deviated from canon, it wouldn’t bother anyone too much if there were some new rooms and a greenhouse.
> 
> C) I don’t know why I liked putting Fenris in ugly clothes during this chapter. It just made me chuckle to think of him wearing the sort of super colorful clothes that everyone in Kirkwall seems to own. Meh. I have a weird sense of humour. 
> 
> D) I sort of get where Anders is coming from. It’s like when you see your friend in a really terrible relationship and you just want to smack their face until they understand how dumb they’re being. Couple that with jealousy, I think it’s justifiable that he’s behaving like such a raging douche.
> 
> E) How come Fenris hasn’t caught on? Hawke has been pretty blatant lately when she’s brought up the past/future. It feels like he should be able to put two and two together, right? Well, not really. She did something pretty unbelievably evil and, though she has been bitchy and whatnot in his memories, he hasn’t seen anything that would make him suspect her of that kind of treachery. I mean, imagine your mom or someone you love saying, “I did something terrible and you’re going to kill me when you find out.” You wouldn’t hop straight to, “Oh my God, you’ve sold me into slavery, haven’t you? Damn it, Mom, how could you!” You’d probably imagine something more mundane that the other person was blowing out of proportion. That’s sort of where Fenris is. He knows something is up but he assumes that they’ll be able to get through it and that she only feels so bad because she’s a good person. Haha, how little he knows. Ah, dramatic irony… how I love thee.


	22. Mors Certa, Hora Incerta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s some gore/violence in this chapter. I don’t even know why I’m warning you; if you’ve made it this far, you have proved yourself strong.

> _“The winds are getting stronger_  
>  _And the sky is falling through_  
>  _You ain’t got much longer_  
>  _‘Til the rage rips off the roof_  
>  _I’m a tornado…_  
>  _And I’m coming after you.”_  
>  _-Tornado, Little Big Town_

Though the air was cool that morning, it hung over their bodies with all the oppressive weight of a humid, summer evening. In the city, the sun had let its cool, winter light fall through intermittent clouds, but here there was only blackness that stretched overhead like a burial shroud. Whether this darkness was related to the lingering smog of dragons’  breath or was somehow reflective of her mental state, Hawke could not be certain. These mines had been the site of such suffering through the years that it was said by some that the sheer amount of death and pain had rendered the Veil thin and penetrable. Years ago, Fenris had told her the story of how an overseer had forced exhausted slaves to push one another off the cliff where their bodies had been devoured by the waiting mouths of dragonlings. It had been a practice designed to serve as an example of what happened to slaves when they were too weary to keep working towards the profit of the Tevinter Imperium. It was no wonder that this place still held the foul reek of death. It seemed fitting, somehow, that her final act should be played out amongst these bones. Hawke inhaled deeply, the acrid air burning at her throat as it went down.

“I hate this place,” she murmured, the heel of her boot crunching over the dry, scorched earth as she walked forward, drawing closer to the heaped bodies of mangled miners who had been left to rot after the dragon had wrecked havoc on these mines.

Varric drew up beside her, holding Bianca at the ready and scanning the terrain with careful eyes. “Then you really shouldn’t have taken it off Hubert’s hands,” he said in a voice more flippant than his vigilant pose would suggest.

Hawke looked over at him, scowling slightly. “I had to get something for my trouble. Poor Fenris almost died while we were slaying that dragon.” Hawke remembered that fight vividly. They had been bombarded by so many fire-breathing beasts that not a one of them had walked away without several burns. Fenris, however, had suffered the worst of it; he’d been picked up in the dragon’s jaws and shaken so vigorously that his body nearly tore in half. If she and Anders had not both been there with their healing magic, he would have bled out among the bones of all the elves who had been worked to death in that pit before him. Hawke had barely given his death any thought at that time, but she had commemorated her triumph by commissioning a very handsome suit of light armour from the hide and metals she’d collected from the dragon’s carcass. It was that very armour she wore as they marched into the Bone Pit once more, intent on slaying the mage that threatened Fenris’ life. Strange how time had shifted her perspective.

“In that case, it seems as though I should have been the one to receive compensation,” Fenris said from beside her, glancing around at their surroundings with visible distaste. “Though I can’t imagine the fool who would consider _this_ to be an acceptable form of repayment.”

“It’s not very impressive, is it?” grumbled Hawke. “And the moment you’ve cleared out one problem, a new one comes popping up. Like gophers. And speaking of fresh new annoyances, where do you think those slavers have wandered off to?”

“You don’t suppose they’re underground, do you?” asked Merrill warily. “I’m not terribly fond of those very large spiders. And there always seem to be lots of spiders underground, don’t there?”

Hawke let out a heavy sigh, glancing over her shoulder at Merrill. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d have to say they’re probably in the most inconvenient place possible. So, yes…they’re probably underground.” Looking forward, she stared bitterly at an entrance to the mines that looked to have been mostly cleared of debris. “These mines run deep into the earth; it may take a long time to find where they’ve hidden.”

Aveline strode up ahead of Hawke, her eyes going towards the mine entrance with a resolute expression. “Then I suggest that we start searching,” she declared firmly. “What do you think, Hawke? Should we divide to search more territory or remain as one unit?”

“We’re not splitting up,” Hawke said decisively, beginning to climb the short, rocky slope that led to the mine opening. “I’m not taking any chances this time. We are finishing this today. No matter what happens, by nightfall, this will be over.” She turned to the others, her expression set and determined as she studied the team that had assembled. She’d called them all to her; all but Anders. And they had answered her call. Sebastian, with his armour that shone even though the sky was overcast; Aveline, her green eyes blazing bright with a strength that no one could match; Merrill, fingers clutching tightly on her ebony staff as she steeled herself for battle; Varric, who wore no smirk on his lips that day. And Fenris, his eyes watching her and his presence reminding her every moment of why she fought.

Their expressions were all grave, their weapons all at the ready. Even Varric, who strived so often to be the comic voice of the group, had a darkness in his eyes then that Hawke had not seen there before. They all knew what lay before them and, what was more, they knew what would come after the battle was done. There would be no drinks of celebration or shouts of victory in the streets. There would only be another, quieter battle from which no one would emerge the victor. Hawke smiled at them, wishing she were the sort for making speeches and wishing that there were words that could begin to express the gratitude she felt in that moment. All she could do then was smile and say, her voice catching a little as she spoke, “Let’s go.”

When they began their descent into the mines, the pitch blackness closed around them, pressing in with such pure darkness that it was almost visible. Hawke lifted her staff above her head, the amethyst crystal imbedded at its end began to blaze with a white glow that illuminated the dark tunnels that stretched around them. The network of tunnels was complex and jutted off of this first cavern in several different directions; the miners had been driven down deep in many directions in their search for the riches the earth had to offer. Hawke turned in a circle, eyes flashing towards the arching entrances of the tunnels in search of some clue as to where they should go down in pursuit of the magister and his slavers. Beside one opening in the earth she saw something that caught her attention. Moving forwards slowly, she knelt down for a closer inspection. Drawn on the stone in white chalk was a clearly delineated arrow. She rose slowly to her feet, a grin flickering over her face. Turning to the others, she said, “This way. They’re waiting for us.”

Fenris returned her smile, a glint of eagerness flashing across his eyes. “Let’s show them what they’ve been waiting for.” Turning his sword in his hand, he entered the yawning mouth of the tunnel with Hawke hotly at his heels.

Their footsteps echoed through the darkness, announcing their arrival to anyone who cared to listen. Fenris’ tread was quiet, his feet bare as he walked onwards clad in his bloodstained armour, but Hawke, unused to such heavy boots, found that her feet fell loudly upon the moist stones. She was conscious of the sound of her footfalls, conscious of every beat of her heart, and almost painfully aware of all that surrounded them. Her body was fully awakened by her steadily growing anticipation as they drove deeper into the mines. At her side, she felt Fenris and knew that his nerves sang just as hers did. He’d been waiting for this longer than she had; he’d suffered more and longer and in ways that she could scarcely bear to imagine. It would give him, she knew, such great satisfaction to kill someone who truly deserved it.

Ahead of them, the tunnel branched off in two separate directions. As they drew nearer to the division, Hawke heard the sound of skittering feet in the distance and, moving in the depths of one of the branching tunnels, she thought she saw something moving. Fenris had already raised his sword, but she called to the others, “Be at your ready!”

The first of the spiders dropped suddenly from above and, the moment it landed, reared back and released a cobweb that entangled Hawke in its sticky thread. Cursing, she began to fight her way free of the surprisingly strong strands as Fenris charged at the creature, his sword slicing cleanly through three of its legs. Letting out a grating hiss, the creature toppled to its side, thrashing on the ground and biting furiously with its enormous mandibles as Fenris raised his weapon once more and plunged it through the spider’s eyes and into its brain. Other spiders were coming forward from the darkness, their thick, hairy legs carrying them swiftly towards the scent of warm meat. Their many eyes shone brightly under the light of Hawke’s staff and their pincers glinted as they opened and closed their jaws with wild hunger.

Hawke had freed herself now, a whirl of flames flashing forward from her staff as another spider drew close to her. All around her was frenzied activity as her companions burst into action and the hideous creatures that surrounded them continued to come in waves from the darkness. Those dark, hard bodies rose tall above Hawke and the others; even Sebastian and Aveline, the tallest among them, were dwarfed by the corrupted monsters that surged towards them. Aveline charged into the fray, undaunted by those vicious mouths or by those many, thrashing legs that  crashed around her as she moved swiftly through the animals that closed in upon her. Before her, a spider reared onto its hind legs, preparing to capture her with a web, but Aveline thrust with her sword, driving its point deep into the beast’s cephalothorax and continuing to drag the blade onward until it broke through the hard exoskeleton of the abdomen. As she did so, severing the creature in two, its entrails spilled from the shell of its body, showering her with its fluids and crude organs. As its body fell heavily to the ground, Aveline darted to the side, raising her sword to take down another of the creatures as it attempted to lay claim to Sebastian.

When the fight was done, the twitching bodies of spiders laying around them, the others stared at Aveline in awe. She was covered entirely in the innards of their slain foes and seemed almost unaware of her condition. With a calm professionalism, she wiped the gore off of her face and moved in line beside the others. Merrill took a step back from Aveline and, looking her up and down, asked quietly, “Aveline… are you quite sure you don’t mind being so… dirty?”

Aveline looked down at her now sullied armour and then, glancing up at the others, shrugged. “It’s not so bad; I’ve seen much worse fighting the darkspawn in Ferelden. Once you’ve had an ogre unload the contents of its bowels on top of your head, you’ll find that there’s not much that turns your stomach.”

Varric crinkled his nose. “Now, that’s a story I don’t think I want to hear the beginning of,” he said, shaking his head.

“Seconded,” said Hawke, picking the last bits of webbing from her hair. “So, should we continue to go down the tunnel with all of our arachnid friends, or try the other? There’s no more chalk markings; I guess they didn’t want to make it too easy for us.”

“My guess would be,” Varric began, “that our mages would have cleared out a tunnel they used frequently. Spiders tend to nest in places that are left undisturbed.”

Casting a reticent glance into the darkness of the unknown passage, Hawke sighed. “You’re probably right. Well, let’s go see what obnoxious little surprises these bastards have planned for us.” Groaning, she held her staff high to light the way for the others and moved onwards along the network of tunnels.

They had not been walking long before the floor of the caverns began to turn downwards abruptly. Though there were makeshift stairs hewn into the stone, their progress was slowed somewhat as they had to carefully pick their way down the dramatic slope. Varric walked just to the left of Hawke, his eyes focused acutely on the ground for any traps that may have been set for them. Thus far, they had seen nothing and that was beginning to concern Hawke. She knew that there was no way that the magister would have led her into nothingness rather than into his clutches, but the absence of small precursors led her to worry that the final battle with him would be heavily laden with obstacles. The prospect of that did not thrill her.

As the ground leveled off, the tunnels forked once more. Emanating from the passage to the right, there was the faintest glow of blue light. Lowering her voice to a hushed murmur, Hawke turned back to the others and, lifting a finger to her lips, said, “This way.” Keeping their footsteps as hushed as they could, their procession filed down the narrow passageway that led towards the beckoning light; Hawke allowed the glow of her magic to fade significantly so that its light would not herald their arrival before they were ready. When they reached the end of the tunnel, however, the cave wall appearing ahead of them and blocking their path, Hawke laughed as she saw the source of the light. Turning her eyes upwards, she saw thousands of pinpricks of light flickering above them in the blackness of the cave like stars in the night sky. Letting the light of her staff fade entirely, Hawke walked forward into the small chamber with her eyes still focused on the high ceiling. Fenris moved beside her, his steps cautious as he looked from her face, dimly illuminated as it was by the lights that shone overhead, to the unknown source of the glow. “What is that?” he asked, his voice kept low.

Hawke turned her face towards him, smiling slightly. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? They’re insects, actually. Beetles. They spend their whole lives in the darkness of these caverns and use the light of their bodies to communicate.” Looking back towards the swirling lights overhead, she added, “Usually they’re not so bright, though; it must be mating season.” She laughed under her breath, her smile stretching outwards slightly. “Everyone tries to shine a little brighter when there’s someone to impress.” Fenris continued to gaze at her, almost compelled to smile. She was lovely bathed in that blue glow and her smile was so light and wistful that it looked as though she had drifted off into a dream. For a long moment, they stood in silence before she turned her gaze to him once more. “Anyway, we should go. These mages aren’t going to kill themselves.”

He nodded curtly before wincing as her staff blazed back into life, causing his pupils to contract suddenly and painfully. She was gone from the chamber quickly, drawing towards the other passage as he chased after her. When he arrived at her side, she looked at him with that familiar sadness. He wondered, when he saw how she bit her lower lip, if she had been near to tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head, turning once more to face ahead. Sighing, he did the same.

They continued through the tunnel as it rose and fell and wound about without any clear or distinct order. Hawke wondered how the slaves who had first carved this tunnel had chosen where to dig. In all likelihood, they had just hacked away at the earth in the mad hope that they would come across what would keep them from being beaten or killed. It must have been exhausting work; even walking this deeply beneath the surface was tiring. The air did not seem as oxygenated as it was above ground and Hawke was beginning to feel lightheaded as they moved onwards. Passingly, she wondered if the air was tainted with poisonous gasses. In spite of that lurking concern, they had to persist down this path until the reached the magister and his followers.

She knew for certain that they were on the right path when they passed through a reinforced archway into a portion of the caves that had been widened considerably. This part of the earth had yielded riches, she suspected, and the pickaxes of many workers had chipped away at these stones until there was a massive, empty cavern. Along the walls, arranged with their spines pressed to the stone, were dozens of skeletons. Judging from the extent in their decay, these had been the miners that Hawke had come so often to the Bone Pit to aid. Their withering skin was pulled tight over their skulls and the wild beasts that roved these tunnels had come forth to bite away chunks of their decaying flesh. The scent of death filled the air, assaulting Hawke’s nostrils as she moved deeper into the mines.

The heads of the corpses were all turned slightly, looking towards the entrance that she and the others had just come through and their skeletal hands were wrapped around the pickaxes that they had used while in life. “Someone’s arranged them like this,” murmured Sebastian ominously, raising his bow and fitting it with an arrow.

“It’s a welcoming party,” rang a voice from the darkness. By the time Hawke had oriented herself in the direction of the sound, the mage had already hurled an entropic cloud in their direction. Their party scattered, hurling themselves away from the epicenter of the attack. The swirling cloud spread outwards, following their fleeing bodies with long, searching tendrils of dark energy. The distant mage, just now coming into Hawke’s line of sight, raised his arms above his head. As he did so, the corpses that had been placed around the cavern were lifted as if they were marionettes suspended in the air. Their bodies began to jerk into a wretched approximation of life as they lurched forward. Ignoring them, Hawke rushed forward towards the mage, her body surging with magic as she sent a bolt of spirit energy sailing for the mage’s heart. He cried out, his body stiffening as her spell made contact, but, no sooner than he’d been hit by that force, did he erect a spherical barrier around his body that sealed out any other assaults. Hissing with frustration, she turned towards the others, abandoning the pursuit of the protected mage in favor of attacking the reanimated corpses that had massed around her companions.

The movements of the corpses were rough, their bodies shifting with violent, almost convulsive contortions as their pickaxes rose and fell, striking with great force but without precision. Nevertheless, there were many of them swarming like ants over Hawke’s allies. The corpses were drawn to Aveline and Fenris, who were attempting to fight back the skeletons that were charging forward in an attempt to reach Merrill, Sebastian, and Varric, who had fallen back so they could attack from the rear of the party. Hawke, having raced forwards towards the caster, was separated from her companions by a field of enchanted corpses. Summoning her strength, she sent a burst of paralyzing cold through the skeletons, freezing them were they stood and stemming their attacks. Taking advantage of this momentary paralysis, Hawke circumvented the frozen bodies and positioned herself just behind Fenris and Aveline. She’d only just found her way behind the shield of their bodies when the corpses broke free of their icy bonds and began to flail their weapons once more.

They were so numerous, far outnumbering Hawke and the others. Though Aveline bludgeoned them back with great, unparalleled force and Fenris moved with incalculable speed, the sound of combat echoed through the chamber in a roar that seemed without end. Hawke cried out as one of the skeletons flanked Fenris and, raising its pickaxe, brought it down heavily towards the elf’s heart. Her exclamation rang in the air, joined by the resounding sound of metal against metal as the corpse’s weapon failed to pierce the thick shell of Fenris’ breastplate. At once he spun, beheading the skeleton and sending its skull flying back towards the wall of the cave where it made brutal contact and fell, shattered, to the ground. Hawke laughed with relief before sending a reverberating strike of electricity through the encroaching enemies. Aveline swept through the remains of the crowd, bringing their bones in crumbled heaps to the ground. Fenris left her side, catching sight of a dimming of the mage’s shield and charging forwards to take advantage of the weakening of that power. The barrier had only just faded for a moment when Fenris’ blade cleaved the mage in two, separating him from head to stern. Fenris stood above the butchered body, panting slightly as he recovered from the exertion of the fight. When he turned towards the others, she saw that Hawke was already at her side.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, lightly grazing her fingers over the indentation in his breastplate where the pickaxe had made contact.

He shook his head. “Not at all. Shall we move on? I am eager to come across more of our welcoming party.”

Hawke grinned, nodding. “As am I. Let’s go.”

As they proceeded, the tunnels descended still more. The incline was so steep now that wooden steps had been build in order to make continued passage into the caverns possible. Accumulated moisture in the caverns had caused the wood of the staircase to expand and contract irregularly, sending fractures through the wood. The instability was made worse by the fact that the wood was also beginning to rot through in places in spite of the fact that the staircase was a fairly recent addition to this portion of the tunnels. Hawke led the others down carefully, testing each step with the tentative pressure of her outstretched foot as she made her way deeper into the earth. For balance of these uneven, unstable stairs, she ran her hand along the mossy stone walls that rose alongside her. It was growing cool within the tunnel, but the lichen had sprouted up in spite of the penetrating darkness and the pervading chill.

As she neared the foot of the staircase, Hawke saw that water had pooled over the floor of the caves. The light of her staff reflected off the smooth, undisturbed surface as she stood at the bottom of the staircase, gazing over the water towards the exit that she could just barely make out on the other side.

“How deep do you think that is?” muttered Aveline ominously from the rear of the party.

Hawke turned her eyes downwards and saw that the staircase continued to lead down past the surface of the murky water. The glare of her magic on the surface, however, was such that it was challenging to discern exactly how deep the water was likely to be. “At least a few feet,” she replied. “You all can swim, right?”

“Not in a full suit of armour, Hawke,” Aveline answered, shaking her head. “This may be trouble.”

“But then again, maybe not,” said Hawke, stepping readily into the water. Standing on the last visible step, Hawke turned to the others and smiled. “I’ll head over first and let you know how deep it is. If it’s too deep to wade through, then I suppose we’re going to have to leave Sebastian and Aveline here while the rest of us go on to have fun without them.”

“You’re not going through that water alone,” said Fenris darkly. “Magisters have been known to fill moats with everything from electric eels to crocodiles.”

Reaching down to splash her fingers through the water experimentally, Hawke looked up towards Fenris. “Well, you’re welcome to come with me, of course.”

“Don’t think you’re leaving me behind either, Hawke,” said Varric, hastily moving forward and splashing down into the water beside her.

“Nor me,” added Merrill, smiling with some trepidation as she cast her eyes down into the water. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

The water was, indeed, not so very bad. After several paces, it still came no higher than Hawke’s mid-thigh. Varric, however, was having a slightly harder time of it as the water rose higher on his body. Still, his head was well above the water and he made no complaint about just how soaked his clothing was becoming. The dwarf seemed far more concerned with keeping his crossbow dry, walking forward with Bianca held high above his head. This became more of an impediment to his movement as they approached the middle of the flooded chamber and the waters drew nearly to his chin.

The others were not finding progress significantly easier at this point. Hawke found that her metal boots were heavier than those that she was accustomed to wearing and they felt like anchors below the water as she trudged through the water. To make matters worse, it seemed that the bottom of the pool was not entirely smooth; rocks and other debris occasionally made her steps unsteady. Still, they were all having a better time of it than Merrill, who was visibly disgusted as she walked through the murky water. More than once, she winced and complained that she had stepped on something squishy. Towards the end of their brief voyage to the dry bank on the other side, she nearly gave the others a heart attack when she let out a high-pitched scream and hurled her body sideways to clutch onto the mostly-submerged Varric. Theirs weapons were poised and at the ready when she divulged that something slimy, probably a fish or an eel, had brushed against her leg. Hawke rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath, and led them the last few steps out of the water. They stood, dripping wet and shivering with cold as they waited for Aveline and Sebastian, weighted down by their armour, to slog their way across the water. Only once they were all united on the stony embankment did they continue on their way.

Once or twice, as they continued making their way through the darkness, they took wrong turns only to find themselves coming to dead ends or moving in circles. Much time had worn on since they’d entered the mines and the eager anticipation that Hawke had felt that morning was giving way to frustration. In the time leading up to their arrival at the Bone Pit, she had prayed for frenzied activity. She had wanted an instantaneous assault and a quick end, but she was finding that there was a good deal more walking involved in searching a series of winding tunnels than she had hoped. The thrumming of blood in her ears was becoming uncomfortable and the fluctuating levels of adrenaline that coursed through her body brought bile into her throat as they continued the search for where their targets had secreted themselves. By the time that she heard passing footsteps in the distance, her body ached with the excitement of the fighting she craved.

The mage who was caught in their path, accompanied by an armed mercenary, was clearly not a part of their intended welcoming party. Rather he was merely part of the patrols that searched these tunnels at intervals to ensure that any problems were cleared out and dealt with swiftly. When he caught sight of the new arrivals, he looked startled and darted off into the shadows while the slaver at his side was left to contend with the sudden onslaught that fell upon him. The mercenary fell quickly, Aveline’s sword driving cleanly through his abdomen, but the momentary stall that he had provided had given the mage time to summon a number of shades that hurtled towards the intruders while he, still cowering within the shadows, brought forth a shield that glowed around him as he stood with his back pressed against the stone. He had not expected to be caught by so many enemies and his heart beat frantically, seeming to hum as one beat was followed instantaneously by another until his heart seemed to whir within his breast.

Hawke’s teeth were bared in a grin as the shades rose up before her. Eyes bright, she erupted with a hail of flames that showered down on the approaching shades. The narrow cave burned bright with the glow of the light as the oxygen seemed to deplete still further as the fiery spheres heated the musty air of the caverns. Hawke lunged towards the shades, neglecting to fall back with her fellows and instead fighting at the helm with the heavily armoured warriors. She thrust the heel of her staff forward, using the sharp blade that was mounted there to crack the hard shell of a shade as its towering body waved before her, lunging forward and attempting to come down over her.

The shades moved hypnotically, rearing back and falling forward like charmed snakes as they approached their chosen targets. It was easy enough for novices, fighting shades for the first time, to get lost in the sway of their charging bodies. Their single orb-like eyes glowed brightly with an ethereal, purple light that entranced and hypnotized if a vulnerable combatant gazed upon it for too long. But none of Hawke’s companions was untried in combat and, striking in a frenzy, they fought on through the hoard of shades. Fog rose up around the creatures, clinging to their bodies as they lurched forward. This obscuring haze stung at Hawke’s skin as it swirled around her. She felt it draining her body, bringing a puckering chill to her skin. The hair on the nape of her neck rose as the shades closed in, but Hawke’s entire body buzzed with power as the drove the creatures back, their bodies breaking free of their shells as they exploded into nothing more than vanishing smoke.

Now, nothing stood between Hawke and the mage who had summoned the shades. Snarling, she charged forwards, throwing her staff aside and pounding her open palms against the barrier the mage still held around himself. The barrier knocked her back, its energy sending a harsh shock through her. Unrelenting, she rushed forward once more, her hands crackling with electricity as she forced her body to withstand the pain as she held her palms against the shield. A guttural, grating cry burst from her throat as she sent the lightening flowing throughout the barrier that arched over the mage. It would not penetrate it, she knew, and, even surrounded by that flaring light, the mage felt no pain. Even without the physical pain, however, he felt his heart near bursting in his chest as he saw her through the glimmering shield of his magic; her teeth were bared, her eyes narrowed to slits as her skin coursed with power. Lifting his arms, he wrapped them around his head, covering his eyes and ears and trying to block out the sound of her hissed words as she came crashing over and over against his barrier. He felt it fading, trembling with his own fear as she dared him to fight back, screaming obscenities through her gritted teeth. He was aware of his flagging strength, his waning power. “You can’t hide forever,” she barked, her voice sounding almost as if it tore from her throat. The mage curled forward, his shoulders dropping in towards his chest as his eyes closed tight and he took several shuddering breaths. He let the barrier drop, its light disappearing and leaving him exposed.

The moment that the mage was left vulnerable, he was hit was such a tremendous force from above that his body came crashing to the ground as if he’d just been tossed down from a great height. The weight of the blow shook the ground and a towering column of dust rose up around the site of impact. Hawke stood among the swirling dust, her body shaking, and stared down at the mage. His body was sprawled on the ground, bones broken and his limbs splayed out at odd angles. The force of her magic had not finished him, however. He writhed at her feet, gasping for air. His breath came in labored, wheezing gasps as foaming blood bubbled and burst on his lips. The cause of this was clear enough; Hawke’s magic had driven him so violently against the ground that his ribs had shattered, puncturing his lungs. One of his ribs had torn through the side of his body, jutting out from his flesh and shifting with each of his pained gasps. Hawke stared, her own body quivering almost as convulsively as the fallen mage’s.

Fenris walked forward slowly, his eyes upon Hawke’s face as he approached. She seemed oblivious to him, aware only of the man was her feet as he sputtered, choking on his own blood. She did not even look up at Fenris as he poised the tip of his sword at the nape of the mage’s neck and, pressing down with one swift thrust, separated his head from his twitching body. No longer joined to the anchor of the body, the head rolled to the side, eyes open and mouth slack and reddened with blood. Hawke cocked her own head slightly to the side, following the movement of the mage’s severed head with her eyes.

Sheathing his bloodied sword, Fenris stepped over the corpse towards Hawke. She looked up at him then, smiling slightly as her eyes met his. Gently, he lifted his hands, chafing them lightly over her upper arms to soothe the muscles that were tensed visibly where her skin was exposed. She let out a little breath of laughter. “I think I went a little overboard,” she murmured, tilting her head towards the body.

Fenris shook his head. “There is no overboard where they’re concerned.” Lifting one of his hands from her arm, he swept away the locks of hair that had fallen across her face. Almost smiling, he added, “At least we know we’re headed in the right direction.”

Hawke nodded. Her body had stopped shaking as she felt the warmth of his hands against her, but she could still feel the film of perspiration that had erupted on her skin as it cooled uncomfortably.

They were near the end now. In the air, she caught the faintest traces of lyrium that had nothing to do with Fenris’ tattoos. It was a relief to feel that they were drawing nearer to their destination.

She’d had enough of dispensing with paltry mages and demons; she wanted the blood of a magister. Retrieving her staff from the ground, she beckoned the others to follow after her.

The tension was mounting as their party moved onwards. Hawke had taken no more than a few steps before she held out her hand, reaching out for Fenris. Even in the dim light of her staff, he sensed her gesture and took her hand into his own. Seeking further comfort from his touch, she squeezed his hand lightly. He responded to the pressure of her grasp by tightening his fingers over hers. She looked over at him, smiling. The corners of his lips twitched upwards and, her smile broadening, she looked back ahead of her. She felt herself calming, felt the adrenaline bringing clarity instead of blind rage.

In the distance, glowing at the end of this passage, was a russet light that Hawke knew was unnatural. The mages ahead had used their magic to illuminate their shelter and did not care who sensed or saw the signs of their presence. They did not fear her coming, but rather beckoned her forward. Smiling, Hawke followed the trail they had laid for her. She’d make them regret having thrown down the gauntlet.

At the end of the tunnel there was a looming cavern, its arching ceiling covered in stalactites that hung so low that some seemed nearly to touch the floor. Glittering amongst the stone, Hawke could see faint traces of lyrium. It was no wonder that this cavern was so large; there was still much to be mined and had surely been much already hauled away. Of course, the lyrium was not the thing of greatest interest to her. What drew her eye was the three mages that stood before her, unafraid and unlikely to hide themselves among the shadows as the last one had. At the center of the trio stood a tall mage who was clad in a black, hooded cloak that hid his face as he stood with his head tilted forwards and his hands folded before his chest as though he were in prayer. Flanking him were two mages dressed in ornate crimson robes that were richly trimmed with ermine fur. As Hawke drew forward, the mages clad in red smiled their greeting. On the right stood a woman, tall and slender with her robes tailored to accent the curves of her figure; Hawke thought it very likely that this mage had been chosen for her beauty rather than her skill. Her counterpart was male, his eyes dark as coals as he bared his teeth at Hawke. It was he who spoke first.

“The Magister is waiting for you,” he said, his voice oily and smooth. Eyes flickering in Fenris’ direction, he added, “He’s looking forward to greeting his old toy. There are so many games to be played.”

The sneer that parted his lips was locked on his face as a bolt of lightning struck him with such power that his muscles were helpless to move according to his will. The arc of electricity that was channeled from Hawke’s staff sizzled in the air, flowing through the black-eyed mage’s head and running into the ground at his feet in a seemingly endless circuit. His mouth and tongue were not able to form words or even a scream, but a guttural, animalistic howl ripped from his throat as the mad convulsions of his muscles forced the air from his lungs. By the time he fell to the ground, the smell of burnt flesh and seared hair filled the air of the cavern. Hawke turned her eyes toward the woman who stood, her expression impassive, beside the mage in the black cloak. “I’m done with games,” Hawke said steadily, lifting her staff once more. This time, the hooded mage dispelled her magic before it struck.

The red-robed woman laughed in high, lilting tones. “But he’s not,” she said, smiling at them before turning and disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

The black-hooded figure, now solitary, lifted his hands into the air, and, with that motion, called forth a storm of rage demons that appeared around where Hawke stood. Their flaming forms erupted from the ground around her, the fires of their bodies roaring as the flames rapidly consumed the air that rippled with heat around them. Hawke could feel her skin beginning to singe as she pulled away from one of the demons as it surged forward, its arms outstretched and clutching at her. She spun away from it, the orb at the top of her staff flaring as glittering ice crystals burst up from the ground around her, consuming the otherworldly creature and halting its progress. But still, another lurched forward, moaning with its hunger for her. It was times like this when she hated being a mage, when she was reminded of the precariousness of her position. They craved her. Her body called to them, drawing them ceaselessly forward.

Hawke was panting, her skin blistering from the heat where the demon had nearly laid hold of her. She let the wound remain on her skin, let the skin tear away and ooze clear fluid that ran across her arms and gathered in her armour. Her lips cracked, blood filling her mouth as she gasped in more of the hot air that burned at her throat. She pulsed with frigid energy, radiating it and hurling it towards the bodies that came relentlessly towards her.

But it was not only her that they pursued. The moment that she had rid herself of the demons that charged towards her, she glanced around and saw that one, having disappeared into the earth near Merrill, appeared again suddenly behind Aveline. Its emergence was sudden, its arms locking around Aveline’s torso, yanking her body against its molten form. Hawke began to rush forward, but her body was halted suddenly, locked within a cage of energy that seemed to be constantly collapsing in on her, forcing the air from her lungs and putting unimaginable pressure on her body. Still, she managed to call out to Merrill, begging her to stop the demon’s assault on Aveline. Wheeling around and catching sight of the scene, Merrill sent forward a tumult of snow that knocked back the beast. It fell away from Aveline, letting her fall in a heap on the floor of the cave as it seemed to howl, rattling in air as its form suffered beneath the onslaught of Merrill’s spell. Beyond Hawke’s sight, Fenris had felled the black-robed mage. With his sword still wet with mage’s blood, Fenris rushed forwards towards the impeded rage demon and hit its frozen torso with such force that its fiery body shattered into brilliant beads of light that disappeared into nothingness before even striking the ground. Hawke was still within the prison in which the mage had trapped her, its crushing energy made her groan with pain. As she hung, suspended in the air by the spell, Fenris turned and began to draw near her, his sword lowered to his side.

When he was nearly before her, the cage of energy faded, dropping her to the ground where she landed with a heavy thud and a grunt. Her muscles ached as Fenris helped her from the ground, but she smiled up at him nonetheless. The fight was over for the moment. The demons had disappeared, their bodies fading into the soil like pools of molten lava and the blood of the silent mage, his body still hidden beneath the black of his robes, reddened the ground around his corpse. It would only be a few moments, Hawke knew, before they would have to follow the path the female mage had taken as she fled their presence, but she could go no further with Aveline immobilized.

The sudden attack of the rage demon had not rendered Aveline unconscious, but it was plain to see that she was very badly injured. Hawke drew near her, already hearing the suppressed moans of pain that the supine warrior was attempting to bite back. The heat of the demon’s body had left half of Aveline’s face badly affected by burns that already bled and blistered. When Hawke knelt beside the Guard-Captain, Aveline’s eyes looked up at her with desperation. Still, her teeth were clenched on her lower lip as she struggled to remain silent and strong. Hawke’s smile shook as she took Aveline’s hand into her own and whispered, “You’ll be alright. I promise.”

The others had drawn closer, clustered together with concern in their expressions. They remained silent, watching gravely as Hawke lifted her hands and held them over Aveline’s scorched flesh. The faint, crackling sound of magic hummed in the air as the lurid red burns began to close, healing as the white glow passed from Hawke’s palms to the injured flesh. When Hawke rose from the ground, her knees were shaking slightly. “There,” she sighed, relief washing over her as she gazed down at the fresh, pink skin that had grown across Aveline’s wounds. “It won’t scar, I don’t think. Though I wouldn’t go in the sun anytime soon, if I were you.”

Raising a hand to her tender skin, Aveline nodded gratefully to Hawke. “Thank you,” she said, rising from the ground on her own though Sebastian offered his hand.

Hawke acknowledged the thanks with a nod in return and then, grinning, she turned to Fenris. Though her body trembled, there was no fear in her bright eyes. “Are you ready?”

Meeting her gaze, he smiled wolfishly. “Let’s end this quickly,” he sneered, looking in the direction they were to go.

Hawke turned from him for a moment, glancing towards the others who had come with her. They were here for her, here for Fenris. Whatever lay ahead and whatever became of her, these were people who cared for him. They would do anything for him. She smiled. He would never be alone again. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice firm and her expression blazing with renewed strength.

Following the path the red-robed mage had taken, they rounded the corner and began to walk down a short length of corridor that led to an iron door. The wrought-iron, black and shining dully in the pale light, was cool beneath Hawke’s hands as, unafraid of what lay before her, she pushed it forward and passed into the chamber that lay ahead.

Assembled before them, standing with their armoured bodies shoulder-to-shoulder, was a line of mercenaries paid to fight on Flavius’ command. But the magister had not yet given his biding for them to fight and so they stood, their swords raised but their bodies motionless as Hawke and her allies came before them. At the rear of the chamber, rising high above the level where Hawke stood, was a wooden walk that would have once been used as a surveillance post for overseers. Magisters, Hawke was beginning to learn, were a theatrical breed and Flavius had positioned himself high above the lowly soldiers that would fight his battle before he’d so much as sully his hands. Hawke turned her face to look at him, handsome and sneering as he surveyed the scene below his perch. The robes he wore were ornate, woven with shimmering golden thread. In all her days, Hawke doubted that she had ever laid eyes on a more arrogant fool. She began to step forward to address him, but from somewhere behind her, Varric hissed, “Watch your step, Hawke. There are traps everywhere.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she murmured, turning her gaze cautiously towards the ground.

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” she heard Flavius say from above, his cool, mocking tone turning her title into an insult as he walked forward from the mages that flanked him and rested his hands on the railing that stretched along the perimeter of the walk.

Hawke flicked her eyes back up towards him, her lips suddenly twisting into a smile. “I’d offer you a greeting in return, but I’ve forgotten your name,” she lied flippantly. “You’ll forgive my rudeness, of course.”

He laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Brash words from a woman so close to death.”

Hawke shrugged casually. “And you’re awfully confident in the face of the woman who bathed in your master’s blood. He died pissing himself like a coward, in case you were trying to envision his death.”

Even from this distance, she could see the effect of her words. Flavius’ features hardened, his smile fading and his eyes narrowing to slits as his hands clutched, white-knuckled, over the rail that braced him. Hawke wondered in that moment whether he had truly loved Danarius and how such a thing was even possible. “You will die like the bitch you are,” he spat venomously, “but only after you’ve watched while I fuck the slave ‘til he bleeds and begs for death.”

“I think we’ve heard enough from you,” Hawke hissed, the magic swelling beneath her skin just as chaos erupted around her.

It was easy to lose track of what was happening then. The ground was splitting, shaking beneath them and the air was filled with the crackle of electricity. Flashes of magic and speeding arrows filled the air, raining down on the crowd in such a maelstrom that dodging them entirely was fruitless. The mercenaries that fought under Flavius’ control came forward in a single wave, some cut off by Aveline and Fenris while still others exploded into red geysers of blood and entrails as, through their own carelessness, they trod upon the traps that had been laid for Hawke and her companions. Sebastian darted around the chaos, disarming the traps and landmines that littered the field of battle as Varric sent his arrows soaring towards all who tried to attack Sebastian while he was distracted. For a moment, when the field was cleared around Sebastian, Varric turned his attention upwards, looking towards the two mages that flanked the magister. The female, her hair glinting like spun gold beneath the tumultuous, glowing flashes of magic, was sneering down to where Hawke was fighting desperately, trying to gain ground as two shades came relentlessly towards her. The mage above, unseen by Hawke, was summoning forth a spell that looked deadly even as it shimmered, blaringly green, around the tensed claws of her fingers. Varric turned his aim upwards towards the mage, sending an arrow shooting straight through the smooth flesh of her exposed throat. Her lithe, lovely body staggered madly as her hands lifted, clawing at the arrow that had driven itself through her. Falling backwards, her death came slowly. Her breath was halted, her blood flowing in scorching torrents over her skin. Lying on the ground, she stared up, her sapphire eyes wild and searching as she tried fruitlessly to call for help. But no sound came to her skewered throat, there was no one who would come to answer her call even if she managed to make a sound. She would not wait for death. Summoning a biting, stinging cloud of entropic energy, she let it wash over her weakening body and drain her of her last moments of wretched life.

Below, the battle waged on. Hawke was panting, racing away from the assaults that seemed to rain ceaselessly upon her. The pursuit of her was so continuous and unremitting that Hawke could barely find enough time to cast a single spell. She certainly could never gain enough ground to cast offensively when it was taking every ounce of her concentration and magic to drive back her attackers. She looked wildly around her, searching desperately among her allies for any who might come to her aid. There were none among their numbers, however, who were not on the brink of being overwhelmed by demons of their own. Flavius and the single mage who remained beside him were still atop the wooden walk, calling demons forth from the Fade. Fighting on, her heart beating madly and her energy draining all too rapidly, Hawke attempted to fight back two rage demons. Only one burst to lava, its form fading, before the other disappeared with a burst of flames into the earth.

Hawke climbed onto a large boulder, gaining a better vantage point as her eyes flashed over the terrain, searching for where the rage demon would reappear. When it came forth, erupting from the ground with a shower of light and sparks, Hawke screamed, “Merrill, look out!” Just in time, the elf’s attention was drawn. Dodging to the side with a high, resounding cry, Merrill struck out with her staff and, pummeling the demon with it, sent coursing shocks throughout the rage demon’s body. Still, it surged forward and did not collapse into the earth until Varric had sent a trio of arrows soaring into the demon’s semblance of a torso.

Varric had turned his back on Flavius for a moment too long. As he began to turn once more to face him, his body grew rigid suddenly, lifting helplessly into the air as though he dangled from the end of a rope. As he hung suspended by an unseen source, blood began to spurt from his body as if he were being punctured by knives. Hawke watched in horror as the swirling funnel of blood was carried through the air, washing over Flavius’ body and making the magister surge with renewed vigor. At last, Varric was allowed to fall limply to the ground, his face ashen and drained of life and color. Merrill whirled towards the wooden walk the towered overhead and lifted her staff. Bright light burst forth, tearing through the air and bearing down heavily on the final mage that fought at the magister’s side. Hawke turned her head away, her eyes burning under the searing glare of Merrill’s spell. When she looked back, there was only dust and floating particles where the mage had stood. Flavius’ eyes were wide with something like fear.

While Sebastian sent forward suppressing fire to protect Varric’s body, Merrill rushed to the fallen dwarf’s side, falling to the ground at his side and fumbling for a health potion. “Please, _please_ be alright!” she gasped, her voice shaking. Her eyes were wide and limpid with the threat of tears as she poured the ruby liquid down his throat, coaxing him to swallow it back. Her body quivered with desperation as a desire demon, summoned by Flavius’ wicked power, danced into life behind her.

The demon’s eerily beautiful body was punctured almost instantaneously by one of Sebastian’s arrows, but Hawke knew that his fire would not be enough to hold back the demon before it got to Merrill.

Hawke rushed forward, hurling herself into its path and driving it back away from where Merrill was hunched over Varric’s still body. As Hawke stood before the demon, it began to cackle madly, grinning as if it could sense the sheer intensity of all the desires that Hawke kept sealed away within herself. Almost at once, Hawke could feel her own perception beginning to shift, manipulated by the demon that rose up before her. With wide eyes, Hawke watched as the creature’s full breasts flattened into broad, muscular pectorals and its purple skin blossomed with intricate, white markings that spread like vines across its skin. “Don’t you dare look like him!” shouted Hawke, summoning the last of her stamina to trap the demon within a crushing prison of energy that held its body fast in place. Though the desire demon could no longer drift elegantly towards her, its body—now distorted to appear lean and muscular—writhed within the prison Hawke had made. “Why are you destroying your one chance to be with the man you love?” the demon called, its words seeming to be spoken by a chorus of different voices as it struggled to approximate Fenris’ voice. There was a fight echo in its words as they reverberated in Hawke’s ears. “He never has to know. He’ll never know the truth about what you are.”

“I don’t _want_ that,” snarled Hawke, fighting through the agony of pushing herself beyond her limit and hurling a fireball at the imprisoned demon. It perished amongst the flames, falling dead and motionless though the glistening bars of energy still pressed in around it.

Up above, Aveline was attempting to fight her way closer to the magister, though his conjured minions were holding her back relentlessly. The battle below had thinned considerably and Hawke felt her heart thundering with the wild, manic hope that washed over her as triumph drew near. She cast her eyes about, seeing Fenris sending several reanimated corpses flying backwards. His lyrium shone brightly as he panted from exertion. Still, he felt Hawke’s eyes upon him. Turning to her, he saw as she nodded and began to run at full speed towards the staircase that led to where Flavius stood. Aveline had slaughtered the last of his demons but, as she came charging for him, he knocked her back with such astounding force that she came soaring towards the top of the stairs, her head hitting against the wall of the caverns as she sprawled out just in front of Hawke and Fenris. Hawke looked up at him as she knelt over Aveline and hissed, “Make him scream.”

The instruction was hardly necessary. Fenris was already thundering forward, his sword raised. Flavius’ eyes flashed, baleful and wild, as he cast a glyph before him, stopping Fenris cold just an instant before he had driven his weapon into the magister. Flavius was laughing with a madness that seemed to be driving him relentlessly away from composure. Hawke watched desperately and the magister sent a searing shock of lightning through Fenris’ paralyzed body. She heard Fenris’ cries, watched as he vainly struggled against the bonds of magic that held him. Hawke was drained, depleted, and achingly weak, but she was not helpless. Trembling, she picked up a large stone from the ground and, staggering forward towards Flavius, hurled it at him with all the strength she could muster.

It was not hard contact, but the stone cracked against his forehead loudly, distracting Flavius long enough that he stopped electrifying Fenris’ body. The rock had opened a gash at his hairline, sending a torrent of blood coursing down his face and into one of his eyes. Furiously blinking back blood, Flavius rounded on Hawke. She stood still, meeting his eye though there was nothing left in her that she could do it he attacked. “You’re such a little fucking bitch,” he hissed, spitting out a mouthful of blood that had run down into his mouth.

She laughed, her body and her voice shaking convulsively. “And you’re a dead man,” she managed at last, her teeth bared.

Fenris had lurched free of the hold of Flavius’s magic, darting forward and knocking the mage to the ground. Lyrium flaring with a dazzling brilliance, he lunged forward towards Flavius without bothering to retrieve his sword. Fenris grasped Flavius’ collar, jerking him up from the ground with one hand while the other was poised in a fist before the magister’s rapidly rising and falling chest. Though Flavius’ panic was clear, his eyes still fixed with Fenris’ resolutely, his lips still curling into a smile. “You don’t even know what she’s done, do you?” he whispered, his voice hissing like a snake’s.

Fenris sneered back at him. “I don’t care.” Fenris’ fist plunged forward, making Flavius gasp as it entered him. Inside, the mage was warm and wet. When Fenris pulled back his hand, the magister’s heart within his clutches, Flavius fell back, limp and hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I hate writing combat. It’s so visual and there’s so much going on at once that it’s all just a little overwhelming for me. Sorry I wrote so much of it, but I didn’t really want it to be TOO easy to kill this guy. I would have posted this days ago, but I got a migraine halfway through and couldn’t finish for a while. ☹
> 
> B) I had to BS a lot of stuff about shades and rage demons and so on. Just went off what I imagine it would be like to fight these little fellers in real life. The shades specialize in entropy so I decided that that foggy junk around them would have entropic qualities. As for desire demons, I think that they might only be able to shapeshift in the Fade itself… but I made it so that they can still sort of cause, like, a glamour that affects perception outside of the Fade (only the person within its immediate sphere of control would be aware of the distortion, so it’s not really the same as shapeshifting). 
> 
> C) I have NO clue what those little blue lights are that are floating in some of the chambers in DAII. I made this up as well (wow, I am just bullshitting left and right…Varric would be so proud). I will say that I think they’re very pretty and that I was never more disappointed by the lack of random kissing than I was while in those chambers with a love interest. I mean, come on! How fun would that cave sex be? Oh well. Poor sexually-frustrated Hawke.


	23. Listen

> _“Well you know one day it’ll come to haunt you_  
>  _That you didn’t tell him quite the truth_  
>  _You’re a crisis_  
>  _You’re an icicle_  
>  _You’re a tongueless talker_  
>  _You don’t care what you say_  
>  _You’re a jaywalker and you just, just walk away_  
>  _And that’s all you do.”  
> _ -Last Call, Elliott Smith

The sun was beginning to set when they emerged from the Bone Pit. As they drew nearer to the city, leaving the smog and desolation of the mines behind them, the sky overhead was purpling as the clouds along the horizon took on the vibrant yellow glow of the sun. The air was still but there was a metallic scent that promised foul weather.

As they walked onwards towards the city, Hawke saw that their party was all a much worse for wear. Though they’d used all the healing potions that they had, Aveline and Varric were still visibly suffering after the injuries they’d suffered at the hands of the magister and his minions. Their cheeks were wan and their expressions hollow as they hobbled on, carefully observed by Sebastian and Merrill, who, though they had both been injured as well, required lesser medical attention. Glancing back towards them with glassy eyes, Hawke wished that there were more help she could offer to her companions, but there was no more she could do. She’d depleted all of her resources during the fight, pressing at the limits of her physical, mental, and magical capacity. Even now, well after the battle was done, she knew that it would be useless to attempt any magic. The only thing she’d been able to do was to bandage the gash at the back of Aveline’s head and place sutures on some of Varric’s open wounds. Still, further attention was obviously required and, when they reached the walls of the city, Hawke told the others that they should go to Anders for aid.

“He’ll be awake,” she said wearily, brushing her hair back from her eyes, “and you all need help that I am in no position to offer.” Hawke looked pointedly from Varric to Aveline.

Aveline shook her head. “There’s no need to concern yourselves any further with me; all I need is a good rest.”

“No,” Hawke insisted. “I am not sending you back to Donnic in your condition. Don’t worry; Anders will send someone to tell him where you are.”

“Not coming with us, Hawke?” asked Varric, smiling though there was a hint of apprehension and perhaps even concern in his eyes.

She shook her head slowly. “No, I’m not. I think it would be best if Fenris and I avoided Anders for the time being.” Smiling slightly, as if with mirth, she added, “I don’t think he much wants to see either of us at the moment.” Hawke was aware of Fenris’ eyes watching her while she spoke. Through all her exhaustion, she was never unaware of him.

Varric met her eye. “Well, take care, Hawke.”

She felt a choking lump rising in her throat at the thought of saying goodbye to them then. It was, perhaps, only for an evening, but there was no certainty of their reunion. Of course, there was never any certainty of seeing the coming day. She’d seen enough of life to know that death always came suddenly. Either by injury or illness, it was never welcome or expected. The end, though inevitable, was always a shock when its time finally came. Still, this parting had the air of finality to it. She saw that in Varric’s eyes as he looked at her. He had guessed what the night ahead would hold for her and had the wisdom not to argue. When she surveyed the others with a quick glance, Hawke could see the unsaid words on their slightly parted lips. Hawke laughed. “Everyone’s so serious all of a sudden,” she said brightly. “Just make sure you get to Anders soon. Fenris and I will be fine.” A smile still stuck relentlessly to her face, she swallowed back the lump that was trying brutally to force her to cry. “See you later,” she managed to say, her eyes bright with something that might have been tears.

“Safe travels,” said Merrill quietly, her trembling fingers tightening on the fabric of her robes.

Hawke nodded curtly. Another moment among this group and Fenris would surely know that something was amiss. Forcing herself to sound chipper, she bid them goodnight and, grabbing Fenris’ hand, pulled him along towards Hightown. It was only when they were well away from the others that Hawke allowed herself to slow somewhat.

They were alone now, the silent city streets surrounding them. In the cold of evening, the citizens had all rushed off to their homes and their families and their quiet lives. Hawke was barely conscious of what lay around her that night; her mind was elsewhere entirely. The only thing that bound her to the present was the warm pressure of Fenris’ hand as he held resolutely onto her. She had tried to slip her fingers from his, but her resistance had been so tentative that he’d been able to gracefully ignore it and retain the contact between them. She felt the strength of his grasp, the lack of reservation when he looked at her. Hawke was aware of the glow of victory that still clung to him, lingering like the blood that remained beneath his fingernails. It ached to know that she would be the one to abruptly put an end to his triumph. The one to take that heat from his eyes. The one to put an end to everything that he desired in that moment and tarnish these memories forever. He’d look back on this night and these breaths of freedom would forever taste of the ashes of her betrayal. Everything that had passed between them would be nothing to him; any love, any affection, would be turned to hatred. Looking at the ground, she entwined her fingers with his and held tighter. His thumb brushed across the back of her hand and, when she looked up at him, she almost thought she caught him smiling. Turning her head quickly, Hawke looked back towards the paving stones just as the first raindrops began to fall.

The stones, growing damp, shone beneath the light of the moon and the stars that glared overhead. Hawke watched as their shadows rushed across the ground, distorted and rippling over the rough, wet pavement. Though the rain was bitterly cold, she was grateful for it. The shock of the frigid drops against her skin roused her from her pensive descent into self pity and chilled the muscles of her body that ached after the exertion of the day. The water washed over her, freeing her of some of the dirt and blood that had gathered on her skin, as she and Fenris ran towards her mansion.

Standing before her door, Hawke saw that Fenris was shivering from the cold. She was shivering as well but failed to notice as she looked into his face. It only occurred to her in that moment that she should have taken him back to his estate; it would be safe there now that the threat of the magister was gone. But she had never thought of it and he had offered no complaint to being led to her home instead of his own. He’d walked at her side, unquestioningly and, as they stood out in the pouring rain, he looked at her with such warmth that she forgot the cold. “Let’s go inside,” he said, his voice low.

She dropped the key once before she managed to successfully unlock the door.

Inside, Orana had lit a fire on the large hearth. Beside it, Brutus had been sleeping peacefully; when he heard them enter the room, he lifted his head only slightly and let out a happy, if a bit sleepy, bark of greeting before resting his chin back on his paws and drifting back to sleep. Bodahn and Orana were nowhere to be seen, mercifully; if they had been there then, Hawke was unsure if she would be able to find any words to speak. There was only one person to whom she had anything to say and it was seeming increasingly plausible that she would choke on the words before she ever managed to get them out.

Fenris walked a few paces behind her as they climbed wordlessly up the staircase; she could hear his bare feet fall lightly on the stairs. Her eyes closed, her breath catching in her throat and her eyes burning as she fought back the tears that had been threatening her all evening. She didn’t want to tell him. In all these months, she had never considered the words she would say. Not seriously. She had never thought that she would actually have to say them. In the back of her mind, she’d always thought—or was it that she had hoped?—that he would remember before it came her turn to speak the truth.

At the top of the stairs, they paused, painted golden in the light of the sconces Orana had left burning. Neither of them turned off towards their bedchambers and neither of them spoke. Hawke knew the cause of their hesitation. He was waiting for her. Waiting for her to say goodnight or to say that he could follow her to her bed. If she waited then, she knew that she would never be able to muster the courage to do what had to be done. She would never be able to bring herself to watch him go off to his room while she was left to face the night alone.

Her body shaking, she tried to speak. “Listen… Fenris,” she began, her voice little louder than a whisper as she managed to get the words out. Hawke cleared her throat before making her second attempt. She couldn’t look at him; she couldn’t look at anything. Eyes closed and face tilted towards the ground, she whispered, “I—I’m so happy that you’ve been a part of my life. I know it won’t come to anything and I know that it’s only been for a little while, but… I’m just so glad that I got the chance to know you. Really know you.” She swallowed, but the lump in her throat was going nowhere this time. “Not the version of you that I had in my mind before, but the man you really are. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. And I’m so glad that I got the chance to… to know you before I… before….” Her voice broke off, choked by the tears that wouldn’t be held back any longer. Shoulders shaking, she bowed her head still lower and tried to hide her face behind the damp veil of her hair.

His hand came beneath her chin, its light pressure urging her to look at him. Brushing her hair from her face, his eyes searched hers. “Before?” he prompted gently.

The tears on her cheeks mingled with the rainwater that dripped down from her hair. “Before I have to say goodbye,” she managed, her voice cracking as she forced out the final word.

“Don’t say it,” he murmured, tilting his head closer to hers. “I meant what I said; I don’t care what you’ve done in the past. Wherever your life leads in the future, I will follow happily at your side.”

Hawke opened her mouth, trying to raise some form of protest, when he closed the last bit of space between them and pressed his lips over hers, halting her words. And this time, she didn’t have the strength the pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you on the next chapter. I decided I’d throw up a few really short ones at once instead of attempting to tackle a monster. It works better this way.


	24. Yours

Their bodies crashed together, their minds senseless as they stumbled into Hawke’s room, their lips never parting as they gasped for air against each other’s mouths. She ached with wanting him as she clawed at his clothes, trying to loosen the armour that hid his body from her roving hands. He wound one of his hands through her hair, refusing to let their kiss break for even a moment. It was as though he feared that letting her have even an instant to draw breath would make her flee from him once more. It was as though he thought she might speak once more of goodbyes. But words were lost to her then. Lost somewhere deep within her mind and drowned by the sea of yearning that overwhelmed her and dragged her deeper down into the mad desire that she’d been struggling against for so long.

She felt his eagerness almost as intensely as she felt her own. His hands unfastening her armour, casting it aside as carelessly as she did with his. She felt an almost unbearable nervous thrill as the last of their underclothing fell away and she felt his naked body pressing against her own. Beneath her hands, his skin was smooth and his body hardened with muscle. He ground his hips against her and she gasped into his kiss as she felt the ferocity of his erection. She reacted powerfully to the promises his body made as she moaned, feeling herself flooding with warmth and wetness. In all her life, her head had never been so light, so wonderfully devoid of clarity.

Warm, rough hands grazed over her breasts as his lips finally parted from hers and travelled to her neck, kisses trailing down towards her collarbone as her fingers ran through his hair that was still damp from rain. She gasped, fingers tight in his hair, as his mouth closed over one of her breasts, the tip of his tongue playing across her nipple. He coaxed an eager moan from her before raising once more to bring his mouth to hers. “I love you,” she gasped suddenly, her lips brushing lightly over his as they formed the words. “More than anything.” Her voice was hushed and abrupt and, when she looked into his eyes, she became aware of what she had said for the first time. He pulled back from her slightly, his arms still wrapped around her and pulling her tightly to him. She saw in his eyes the aching pleasure that he took in hearing those words. Lifting one of his hands, he cupped her cheek as the side of his thumb just barely touched her lips as if he were trying to feel the words. “Could you… say it again?” he asked, his voice thick and little more than a whisper.

“I love you,” she breathed, her hands running over his shoulders and her expression full of wonderment as her eyes were drawn helplessly to his.

His lips slatted over hers, his kiss almost impossibly soft before he pulled back and, almost looking embarrassed, murmured, “I have never… before.” He shook his head, his eyes flickering over her. “Not like this.”

“I know.”

His eyes turned back to her. “What would you like me to do to you?”

“What do _you_ want?” Her eyes were soft as she met his gaze. A smile flickered on her lips.

No one had ever asked him that question before. Not like this. His mind offered him no answer; it was too busy surging with the feel of her breasts pressing against him as her hips undulated, arousing him almost to the point of pain. He wanted her. That was all. Her in her entirety. “I….” The words caught in his throat. He had no words. Nothing that could express what he felt or what he wanted.

“Show me,” she whispered, leading him back towards the bed and crawling onto it ahead of him. He watched her move, watched the motion of her hips and the play of light and shadow across the surface of her naked skin. Her legs shifted as she positioned herself; he felt himself throbbing, aching. “I… want you to do whatever you want,” she said, her voice tender and her cheeks flushing with some embarrassment as he admired her exposed flesh. He saw that her nerves made her tremble. “I won’t do anything you don’t ask me to do.” Hawke brushed her hair behind her ear, eyes flicking down to her naked body and her blush deepening before she looked back to him. Her gaze traced the whole of him. Approaching the bed, Fenris remembered when his body had not been his own—a time when her eyes on his skin would have made him feel nothing of either pleasure or shame. Now, under her gaze, he was reminded forcefully that he was entirely a part of his own flesh, belonging not only wholly to himself, but completely to her as well. Offering himself to her willingly, he became more than he had ever been. He was hers.

Lightly, he ran his hands over her body, barely grazing over her skin. He could take his time with her then, exploring her as if they had forever. He never had to let her go; there was no one to drag her away. He had never had the simple liberty before of slowly discovering his partner. He wondered, as he ran his fingers over the silky skin between her breasts, if she expected him to be more daring. Perhaps she expected him to want to do something bold or depraved with the body she had offered so freely to him. But, when he looked at her face, he knew that he was all she expected. She looked at him as if all she wanted from him in that moment was his closeness. Fenris slid his hands to her breasts, feeling their weight in his palms as he lightly kneaded them. Soft, supple flesh. Her body was so soft—so unlike his own. The foreignness of her made his possession of her all the more enticing. Her breasts cupped in his hands, he ran his thumbs in light circles over the rosy peaks of her nipples. They puckered at his touch, responding to him. Her body was in his power; it was an odd thing. Beautiful to watch as she pressed her head back against the pillow, lifting her chest up towards him and sighing as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Look at me,” he demanded gently, lifting one hand to trace the exposed column of her neck. Her eyes, half-lidded, fixed on him with her pupils flooding them with darkness. “Say you’re mine,” he told her, smiling shakily as his hand grazed over her neck to return to her breasts.

“I’m yours,” she breathed, her voice low and desperate. Her words caused his skin to once more feel that cold thrill that felt oddly accompanied by warmth. He looked down to where his hands played across her skin. The shadows of his hands were cast across her skin; the trembling weight of his fingers against her flesh created shallow indentations. When he touched her, it was real. Her body, her movements, the shortness of her breath, and the throaty, pleading gasps—that was his doing. Fascinated, he watched the dance of shadow as he caressed her. She reacted to his every touch, her eyes never leaving him.

“And you want me?” he asked, his voice low as he bent forward to take one of her erect nipples into his mouth.

“Yes,” she gasped desperately as his teeth lightly closed on her. “Maker, I want you.”

“Why?” he exhaled, his warm breath giving rise to goosebumps across her skin. He lifted his face slightly from her chest, turning his eyes towards her. She watched the way the firelight caught the flecks in his eyes.

“Because I love you,” she whispered, reaching down with one hand to run her fingers through his hair. He pressed his head gently against her touch before moving his attention back to her chest. Diligently, he moved to her other nipple, flicking his tongue across her eager peaks before nipping at her once more. Her fingers clutched at his hair, pulling him tighter to her. His body was warm, stretched over her. She wanted to part her legs, wrapping them around him to urge him to enter her. But she’d said she’d do nothing without his request. Promised to let him do as he liked. And he wanted to explore. Take his time. Drive her mad with wait and wanting. She could feel her heart hammering and feel herself flooding with wetness as he teased her, daring her to take the lead.

His lips were soft as they trailed across her abdomen. She watched him. His arms were on either side of her body, his muscles firm and strong as he lifted himself to keep from resting his weight entirely on her. He moved easily, adjusting his body as he changed his position to kiss lower still on the exposed plane of her midriff. She watched as the muscles of his back shifted beneath his taut skin. The lyrium lines danced, glowing faintly as he dipped his lips against her navel. She shivered, a hungry whine escaping from her throat.

He glanced up at her once more, barely lifting his mouth from her skin. “Part your legs,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper and his eyes filled with heavy desire. Her eyes would not have been able to tear away from his if she had wanted them to. Crooking her legs at the knees, she splayed them to the sides. He broke eye contact then, looking down at her with a fierce sort of hunger that caused her nerves to set fire once more. Her body was shaking, her thighs trembling as he bowed his head to her. One of his hands lifted, resting lightly on her thigh and gently stroking against her as if he were soothing a frightened animal. She gasped breathlessly as his tongue, with slow deliberation, ran over the wet cleft between her legs. Lifting his eyes to look up at her once more, he smiled. “You taste like honeysuckle,” he murmured. Blushing, she turned her head to the side, eyes fluttering shut once more as she chuckled at her embarrassment.

“Liar,” she breathed.

He grinned in response, returning to her. His mouth created light suction against her clitoris as his hand still traced lazily against her thigh as if he had forgotten it was there. She felt him against her as if the places were their bodies met were burning with a blazing fire. His technique, though he was skilled as he ran his tongue across her most sensitive recesses, was nothing compared to the thrill of knowing that he was the one who touched her. The exquisite pleasure of glancing down between her wantonly parted thighs and seeing his fair hair tumbling across his face. Of seeing her skin catch with the blue glow that emitted from his lyrium as his excitement grew. Of meeting his eye now and again as he turned his gaze to meet hers, monitoring her excitement as her hands lowered, one clutching at her breast and teasing it as he had, whilst the other ventured southwards to wind once more with his hair. She felt his breath against her, felt his warmth and life, as he tasted her. She could have cum from the feel of his breath alone.

When he moved his hand away from her thigh to slip his fingers inside of her, she was already tightening. She cursed inelegantly as he undulated his fingers, tips pressing urgently against where she was most aching for him. It wasn’t enough. Maker, it was so good, but it wasn’t enough. “Please,” she panted, her back arching and her thighs insistently straining to part still further. Her entire body begged him; there was no need for her litany of throaty pleas.

“What do you want?” he asked, smirking without lifting his mouth away from the warmth of her body.

“I want you,” she moaned urgently, her fingers desperately locked around his hair.

“You have me,” he murmured.

“I want you inside of me.” Her body writhed unconsciously, beckoning him. He could sense her eagerness; her convulsing, desperate body craved him. Still, he delighted in her desperation. In the ferocity of her wanting and yet the amazing restraint as she allowed him to tease her with endless, deliberate ministrations. She was his in her entirety.

“You _have_ me inside of you,” he said maddeningly, rapidly arching his fingers to remind her of them. Her eyes closed then, her muscles taut and convulsing as she cried out, her voice rough and unrestrained. His name bursting from her throat. It was too much.

He positioned himself at her slick entrance and pressed inside of her; she was tight with arousal and intoxicatingly wet. Feeling her body embracing him drew a deep groan from his throat as he leaned forward, bringing his face towards hers. Her hands lifted, both grasping at his hair and neck with fevered desperation as she pulled his lips to hers. She could taste herself on his tongue—her taste mingling with the eternal sweetness of his mouth. Lifting her hips, welcoming him deeper within her, she moaned into his kiss. Their breaths came, short and hot, as their bodies moved together. His thrusts were slow and deep at first, plunging into her with such intensity that each new thrust felt like a fresh intrusion. It drove her mad to feel his body lifting nearly from her before filling her once more. She was so full of him; he pressed at her boundaries, making her ache in the best possible way. Each breath came against his mouth, his breath joining with hers. When he sped his pace, moving within her with a frantic sort of hunger, her body was shaking anew and she felt herself nearing another wave. Her moans erupted from her with embarrassing volume now as he drove within her, seeming to break down to the very core of her being. Hawke broke their kiss, biting down on his shoulder to stifle her cries as her fingernails dug into the firm muscles of his shoulder.

Her legs pulled him tighter against her, locking around his waist and drawing his undulating body fully against her now. She felt his weight over her, hot and damp with perspiration. Her mouth against his shoulder, she tasted the faint salt of his sweat. She was losing her senses, overcome with wanting him and with the surging, ungovernable tension that was mounting within her as he rode her with rough, eager abandon.

He knew she was nearing her end; he felt her body convulsing around him as she panted beside his ear. There was no containing his own groans as he felt her against him, her breasts crushing against him and her arms, legs, and every part of her embracing him as if her body could never be whole without him. She was bucking against him, her teeth biting at his shoulder even as his name poured from her throat once more. His vision was dazzled now, fogged and blaringly bright. He knew well the flush of his skin, the ache of his body, the swelling of his manhood as the sensations began to overwhelm him and push him inextricably over the edge. “Elena,” he rasped, driving into her fervently, his muscles tightening, his hips rutting beyond his control as he—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) I think the idea of love being a way of possessing someone is interesting. Whether it’s like they belong to you or that you have become a part of them, I find the whole concept intriguing. I’ve always thought that it means so much in-game when Fenris says, “I am yours.” For so long, he’s fought for his freedom and then he sort of willingly gives himself to someone. I think that’s precious.  
> B) Anyway, see you on the next chapter.


	25. You

The afternoon sun was bright and Hawke was smiling as she sauntered towards The Hanged Man. He was almost too preoccupied to notice the bounce of her hair or the sway of her hips. Almost. “Shall we, Fenris?” she asked, wheeling around towards him when they were standing below the wooden sign that dangled overhead.

He nodded, saying nothing. They were so near to what he had been searching for so long. Family. This last hope of discovering a connection to his past. His hand itched to reach out and wrench the door of the tavern open, but he resisted the urge and struggled to maintain his composure. If Hawke kept nattering on, however, he was not sure that he’d be able to remain calm.

“Alright,” she said with a shrug, when he offered her no verbal reply. “Let’s see what we have, then.” She opened the door, holding it for Fenris as he entered. Anders and Varric came next, letting the door swing shut behind them.

It was dark inside. The air reeked, as it always did. Somehow, it seemed wrong to be conducting such business in a place so squalid. He wished he had thought to ask his sister to meet him somewhere nicer. Somewhere where the dregs of society did not converge on a nightly basis.

Sitting at a table that was typically populated by drunkards was a woman whom Fenris had never seen there before. Still, he knew her at once. She was older now, with her face longer and thinner than it had been when he’d last seen her. Of course, she had been a child then. A nervous thrill blossomed inside of him, sending tremulous shivers across his skin.

Even when she caught sight of him, however, seemed less affected by the reunion. She remained seated, staring up at him with wide, green eyes that were so like his own. “It really is you,” she said, her face impassive.

“Varania?” He felt his own blank expression interrupted by emotion that could not be concealed behind a collected veneer. The memories of her had come so suddenly. The surging flood of sunlight and laughter and drying bedclothes lifting like the wings of gulls as they dried on in the breeze. “I… I remember you. We played in our master’s courtyard while our mother worked. You called me—.”

“Leto. That’s your name.” _Why was she so calm, so eerily distant?_ _Why wouldn’t she smile as she had when they were small?_

“What’s wrong? Why are you so…?”

Hawke placed her hand on his shoulder. “It’s a trap,” she said urgently, her eyes flashing with indignation. No doubt she resented being lured into a magister’s trap. Fenris saw her lean muscles tightening, already preparing for a fight. She was beside him as she always was; even as the room seemed to collapse in around him, she was there beside him with her hand still pressed against him.

_He’s here._ Descending the staircase. Coming for him. The memory warped, distorted, shaking and reverberating as though the force it took to break through into Fenris’ consciousness might break apart his mind entirely. Danarius seemed so tall and looming. Everything flickered with sparks of red. His voice thudded within Fenris’ ears, pulsing throughout his entire body. “Ah, my little Fenris.” That voice like oil. Those cruel, mocking eyes that shone as he drew closer. “Predictable as always.”

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” Varania said evenly. _Remorseless bitch, her voice as hollow as the hole he would carve in her chest._

Fenris snarled. “You led him here,” he snapped, rearing at her like a cornered beast.

“Now, now, Fenris; don’t blame your sister,” Danarius chided, speaking as if they were still quarreling children. “She did what any good imperial citizen should.”

“I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius, but I won’t let you kill me to get them.” His nerves and muscles and every part of him was now alive with the adrenaline and the anger that this encounter awoke. This was it. This was the fight he had waited for all these long years; the moment that would lead to his death or his freedom. Either way, it would be better than waiting. Better than spending a lifetime running.

“How little you know, my pet,” Danarius laughed. “And this is your new mistress then? The champion of Kirkwall. Quite lovely.” His eyes, foul and gray, flickered over Hawke. Fenris felt a surge of possessiveness, hating that Danarius could eye Hawke so presumptuously. His hands were poised, ready for a fight, when he glanced over at Hawke. _Why is she so calm now?_ _Why is she smiling?_

“If you want him, he’s yours,” she said, shrugging casually.

“What?” Fenris felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. _What?_

“I thought I was the only one thinking that,” muttered Anders, smiling with vague, amused approval at his lover. She glanced back at him, her eyes bright. In the face of a magister, she was calm.

“I knew a mage would be sensible. I will, of course, make it worth your while.” The slavers stepping forward, Danarius towering and looming in. Hawke beside him, her muscles relaxed now and her hand gone from his shoulder.

“Don’t do this, Hawke. I know we’re not friends, but I can’t face him without you.” The note of pleading in his voice repulsed him, but there was no helping it. Surely, after all these years, after all they had been through….

“You’re on your own, Fenris.”

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” he heard himself say. How could he have thought, even for one moment, that this mage would be any different? His own foolishness. His own willful self-delusion. It was all so ludicrous. There was no one to blame except himself. His strength was gone now, his body limp and drained.

The memory came quickly in a flash which shook him to his core. It danced across his closed eyes as he released inside of the woman who lay beneath him, her arms and legs wrapped around him and pulling him closer. He felt his heart shuddering in his chest as his breath came short. Her arms and legs, so comforting moments ago, were a prison now. The soft, eager moans that escaped her throat made him want to strangle her. His skin felt filthy. The filth seemed to reach down to his core. He was inside her still and the slick, tightening feel of her body filled him with a quivering disgust.

Shivering with rage and the cold of his sweat, Fenris pulled away from her, forcefully freeing himself from her limbs. He moved away from her hurriedly, scrambling towards the foot of the bed. He knelt, staring at her with eyes that glinted in the dim light of the fire.

Her body lay splayed out in front of him, her legs still parted. Her thighs were glossy with her own fluids and his. White, thick seed spilled out of her and he felt his stomach turn. She still held a part of him. All the worse because he had wanted it this time. He had been thrilled to hold her to him. He fought the urge to retch, turning his eyes downwards and staring at the disheveled blankets that were strewn across the bed.

Hawke knew. She knew the instant that he looked down at her with shock instead of warmth. She saw the horror as he stared at her face and, in that moment, she was horrified with herself. Realizing what she’d done—what she’d brought on both of them—she felt her heart stop and her body stiffen. He loosed himself from her, pulling away like a struck dog.

Hawke remained recumbent, but propped herself up on her elbows and looked to him imploringly. “Fenris,” she murmured, her voice low and desperate, “Fenris, please. Please, let me explain.” She pulled herself onto her hands and knees, moving slowly towards him. “Please, please,” she repeated, feeling herself beginning to choke back tears. “I’m so sorry, Fenris. I’m so sorry. Please, listen. Please, I love you.” She wasn’t sure what she was going to say if he were to listen to her, but she knew that she kept edging towards him, pleading and hoping.

She never had the chance to say a word. He needed no explanations for her behavior; there was nothing she could say that would redeem her then. Every inch that she drew closer and every word she said just served to fill him with a wild, feral anger. She was little more than a foot away from him when, swiftly, he leapt forward and threw her back onto the bed. Hawke gasped as she landed but, even as she sucked in that air, Fenris’ hand locked around her throat. His movements were too quick for her to fully process the attack at first; she knew only that she was on her back and that his body was above hers. Then the fear came as her body grew short of oxygen. In her neck, she could feel the her trachea snap slightly to the side. Blood thudded in her ears and seemed to well in her eyes. She felt her face burning as he pressed down still harder on her throat. Her vision blurred under his assault but she saw him, his lyrium glowing, through the haze of tears that filled her eyes. Her heart raced at first, the fear coursing through her as she clutched at the arms that pinned her down and pressed her into the mattress. The thunder of her heart began to relent as she stared up at him. It was the end, she knew. She had known all along. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Her head was light now and the pain fading. And she’d told him that she loved him. And that she was sorry. Maybe that was enough. Enough for one life.

When she felt the pressure lift from her body, Hawke was sure that it was over. Her head seemed to swell and rush with air and her chest tingled as breath seemed to return to her. Then came the pain. The shooting pain like swallowing knives that slit down her throat with each breath. The aching throb of her head and the explosive burn of her eyes as they threatened to burst from her skull. She let out a high whine of agony but the sound seemed to tear at her as it escaped from her mouth. Overwhelmed and aching and feeling on the verge of the death that, mere moments ago, had seemed so inviting, she lapsed into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) I knew from the beginning (as did you, probably) that Fenris would get back the memories of Hawke’s betrayal the first time he slept with her. It just made sense, given the memory flashes he experiences during their canonical relationship. But I wasn’t sure how he’d react. But, ultimately, there was no way around this. For one thing, there is no way in the world that Fenris wouldn’t try to kill her. When his own sister betrayed him, he tore her heart out (or he did in all my playthroughs because my Hawkes thought she had it coming). So, ultimately, there was no way he and Hawke were ever going to have a discussion here. Or even an angry shouting match. Given all Fenris has gone through because of Hawke and the awful shock he’s just had, I think his reaction was inevitable.  
> B) Updating soon. I hope.


	26. Make-believe

> _“In my city, I didn’t make a sound_  
>  _When I fell over and cracked my crown_  
>  _Heard a woman say,_  
>  _‘Stay down, Champion, stay down.’”_  
>  -Tall Saint (Demo Version), The National

The fire on the hearth had dwindled and died though the embers still danced, seeming to crawl like glowing snakes among the ashes. Dawn had come, throwing its dull light through the curtains that hung heavily over the windows in Hawke’s bedchamber. Though she saw the light, watching as it broke through the cracks between the panels of crimson fabric, Hawke could not make out whether it was early morning or if the day had worn well past noon and into evening. Her eyes, it seemed, were blurry and it was difficult to discern much of anything from where she lay on the bed. She might have lifted her head to peer around the room and get a better sense of her surroundings, but she feared the shattering pain that might accompany such a movement. Contemplating such an action, however, she realized that an almost pleasant numbness had pervaded her body and that the pain she could remember was gone. There was, admittedly, the slightest throbbing in her neck, but it was hardly as extreme as it had been when her body had given out under the agony. Surprised, she lifted one of her hands to her throat and lightly ran her fingertips across where Fenris had locked his hands. The touch was not entirely uncomfortable and she furrowed her brow with confusion. Her head was terribly light and none of this made sense, least of all how she had been allowed to live.

“Hawke?” His voice was gentle, full of worry and relief, coming to her from the corner where he had sat, keeping watch through the night.

“Anders?” she croaked, beginning to force herself to sit upright on the bed. Before she could fully bring herself to a seated position, Anders was at her side, easing her back down gently. His hand remained resting on her shoulder, the light pressure ensuring that she didn’t try something as foolish as sitting up for a second time.

“No, stay down,” he said softly. “You need your rest, Elena.” His concern for her and the long, sleepless night that he had spent watching over her had made his face ashen and left purpling circles beneath his warm eyes. With light, shaking fingers, he pushed the hair back from her face, leaving his hand nestled amongst the tangled locks of her hair. “You’re still not entirely healed,” he murmured, continuing to pet her hair as if she were some sort of small, fragile bird. She wished that she could tell him to stop with his softness and his attention, but she had neither the strength nor the heart to reprimand him as he looked down at her with such evident concern. “I didn’t heal the bruises,” he told her softly, his expression becoming grave as his eyes flickered towards her throat. “I… I needed you to see yourself. I needed you to see what he did.” It was clear that he was attempting to keep his voice calm, but a thread of anger found its way into his last words.

Hawke shook her head, rolling it from side to side on the heap of pillows that had been piled beneath her. “It doesn’t matter,” she wheezed, finding it took more effort to speak than she would have thought. “He remembered. I don’t care what he’s done.”

Anders’ eyes narrowed slightly, his lips compressing into a thin line as he fought the urge to shake her from her complacency. “He could have killed you, Elena,” he snapped. Then, his expression softening somewhat, he added, “When I first arrived, I thought you were dead.” He wove his fingers through the loose, tumultuous mass of her hair. “When Bodahn brought me here, you were unconscious. Even a little more pressure he would have crushed your trachea. It was fractured as it was. That’s healed, but you had to see the bruises. I couldn’t erase that before you saw it.” His eyes lifted then, meeting with hers for a moment with some of his old tenderness creeping into them. Hawke met his gaze impassively as he leaned forward and pressed his cool lips to her forehead.

“Bring me a mirror,” she rasped as he drew back from her.

His brow furrowed slightly. “Are you sure? You’ve just had a shock.”

Looking up at him flatly, she replied, “You said that you needed me to see it. Let me see it.”

Anders nodded solemnly, watching her blank expression as he rose from her bedside. He walked slowly towards her dresser to retrieve the gilt mirror that Hawke kept resting there beside a gilded comb. These small vanity items had once belonged to Bethany and, through the years, Hawke had always kept them close though she had never had the urge to use them. The comb still held a few strands of black hair woven throughout the teeth. There were nights, quiet nights when she had been alone and Anders had been in his study, when Hawke had toyed with those errant strands of hair, remembering the days that were gone and the people who ought to have lived instead of her. Sweet Bethany. Brave Carver. And here she was yet again. Alive when she had no right to be.

Anders placed the mirror gently in her hand. It was not large, but it was large enough for these purposes. “There,” he murmured, sitting on the bed beside her and resting his open palm softly on the blankets that hid her still naked body. “I’ll heal you fully when you’ve seen it. It won’t be this bad for long, Elena.”

She was scarcely listening to him as she readied herself for the sight of her reflection. She neither felt dread nor concern for herself, but only a sort of hollow curiosity as to what it was that had brought such worry to Anders’ face. When she looked into the mirror, her eyes widened slightly with surprise. The sclera of her left eye was entirely red with burst blood vessels, the lurid color totally surrounding the pool of her golden iris. Her right eye, she saw, was also colored with a blotchy mosaic of vivid red and a few patches of remaining white. Across her eyelids and on the tender, soft skin beneath her eyes, it looked as if her face had been spattered with blood. Hawke lifted an exploratory hand to her face, attempting to wipe the flecks of blood from her cheeks. In spite of her light touch, the splatters of color remained. “Burst capillaries,” explained Anders softly.

“Hmm,” muttered Hawke disinterestedly.

Her fingers moved slowly from her flecked cheeks to her lips. They were swollen beneath her fingers and slightly numb. She would guess, however, that the slight swelling there had arisen from fervent kisses rather from the strangulation. Lightly, she pressed her index and forefinger against her mouth, mimicking the pressure of his lips that had lingered not so long ago against her. She felt her eyes welling with tears at the memory; she’d allowed this to happen, marking his body and her own with an act that she would never be able to take back. Once more, the irrevocability of her own actions had impressed itself on his life, scarring him in ways just as real as the lyrium tattoos that Danarius had etched into his skin. Worse, perhaps, because she’d driven down deeper than lyrium could ever go, burrowing down to his core and making a mess of him just as his old wounds were beginning to heal over. She bit down on her lip, only feeling the slightest pressure of her teeth through the haze of treatments that Anders had given her for the pain.

“And that’s just your face,” said Anders with a bitterness that she knew what meant for Fenris. “Look what that beast did to your throat.”

“Don’t call him that,” she said, her voice low and still nearly devoid of emotion. Tilting the mirror, she looked at the markings that spread across her throat. It was less jarring, somehow, to look at these lurid bruises than it had been to see the flaming redness of her eyes. The bruises were purpling already, nearly black with pooled blood where the pressure had been the greatest and with the same freckling of burst capillaries towards the outer reaches of the encircling mass of bruises. She ran her hand along her neck with her free hand, pressing deeper against the bruises until she felt the sting of her fingernail digging against the tender flesh. “He should have done worse,” she whispered, continuing to explore where his hands had held her throat.

“How can you excuse this?” he spat, gesturing to the whole of her damaged body with a fluid motion of his hand. “He could have killed you, Hawke!”

She smiled slightly, placing the mirror on the bed beside her. “It still wouldn’t compare to what I’ve done.” Her eyes flicked over Anders’ face, watching his expression, his lowering gaze, and his disappoint that her reaction to her injuries had not been one of anger or even self-pity. “You saw what I did. When you came here, you must have seen. You must have guessed.”

Anders shook his head slowly, not looking up at her face, as his fingers clenched against the blanket that stretched over her. She felt the warmth of his hand through the fabric, felt the pressure of his fingers as they dragged the cloth to pull it into a ball in his fist. “I thought that he might have….” Anders trailed off, unwilling or unable to say what it was that he had supposed when he had come into the room and saw Hawke’s body, battered and limp, sprawled naked across the bed with semen dried between her thighs and stains across her sheets.

Hawke shook her head, letting out a bitter burst of laughter. “No, he didn’t. Quite the reverse, I assure you.” Anders lifted his eyes as she turned her own towards the pale light that filtered through the curtains. “I let myself forget for a moment all the things I’ve done and so I did something just as terrible. I stopped hating myself.” Her fingers twisted against each other below the blankets, her voice sounding as if she might cry. “I loved him, you know. I loved him more than I hated myself.” She laughed again, as she bowed her head and stared fixedly at the tight, rough weave of the blanket. “I can’t believe I let that happen.”

The words did not come easily to Anders. He pitied her and hated her in turns as the silence stretched between them. There was a time when the infinitely pragmatic, strong woman he had loved would have reared up in fury against any man who harmed her. Hawke, brilliant and dominant and always sure of herself. And now she lay before him, her eyes burst with blood and free of the fire that used to fill those amber depths. He’d come to her, he’d loved her, he’d healed her when she was broken. And she had never loved him in the way that she loved a feral monster that had nearly snapped her neck and left her for dead amongst a heap of soiled, shuffled sheets. She lay there, just inches from a man who had loved her and cared for her for years, and murmured hoarsely about the elf who had left her hollow and devoid of everything that had made her beautiful. For that, he pitied her. He knew all too well what it was like to love something to the point of breaking. “You can’t hate yourself forever, Hawke,” he said at last, his voice kept as gentle as he could force it to be.

She smiled at him, with more sadness than bitterness now. “We’re so alike, you and I,” she said quietly. “We always were. So easily overcome by what we feel. So easily blinded by passion, pride… apathy or vengeance. We got lost, I think, in our own minds. But our actions still have consequences, reaching beyond what our short-sighted minds can see. Every awful thing that happened to Fenris this last year was my fault and my intentions or my feelings mean nothing in comparison to what I’ve done. I raped him. I drove needles through his skin and made him bleed. I made him feel subhuman and broken and lost. And, on top of everything else, I let him believe that those things weren’t my fault. I let him believe that I was worth loving. Because I thought that if I felt sorry enough and I loved him enough, I could be the sort of person that he thought I was. I thought I could redeem myself and become that person. But that was foolish self-delusion. Willful naivety and praying for a beautiful death that would wash away sin. But the past doesn’t go away, Anders. It doesn’t. And people don’t change. As much as I wanted to believe that I was becoming a better person, the only thing that changed about me is that I found new way of hurting him. A new level of selfishness. I loved him like a child—single-minded and so lost in him that I let myself forget who I am. But I realize who I am now. I’m not a good person. I can never make amends and I’m sick of pretending that redemption exists when it doesn’t. I know what I am, Anders. And I am through playing the hero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) I think that Anders probably has a pretty different take on this whole situation than I do. I sort of tried to reflect that here; I imagine this whole business must be very distressing for him.
> 
> B) I’m in the process of proofing some more chapters. They’ll be up in a little bit.


	27. Alone

He should have killed her. When her body was under his and her breath was cut off in her throat and he held her fast in his hands, her life entirely within his power. He should have done it then, when she lay beneath him, wet and still and staring up at him with wide eyes. All around him, the room seemed to pulse. He felt the heat across his skin, felt the thud of blood in his own ears as he was above her, at once in control and entirely out of it. His grasp on her was strong and she was motionless, though he could see from her eyes that she was still alive. He could have done it then. Could have ripped her head from her body and thrown it into the fire that still burned. She was small, fragile—a sack of bones and sinew and a heart that beat blood through the soulless shell of her body. With his hands around her throat, she was a mortal just like any other. Already, he felt the pulse of her heart slowing. He could have ended it then—he wanted to and it was well within his grasp.

The mattress creaked beneath him as his weight shifted, as he drew back and brought his hands away from her throat. He still felt the markings in his skin burning, none of the rage and surprise and desperation leaving him for a moment as he moved away from her. She was motionless as he removed himself from the bed. He dressed as hurriedly as he could manage, pulling on the clothing and armour that she had torn away not so long ago. His heart had been hammering then, his body craving her, as her hands had stripped him bare, running over his skin as she trembled in his arms. He’d pulled her closer to him, desperate and gleeful in his possession of her.

A high whine escaped her throat and his eyes darted towards the bed as his mind was drawn back to the present. The present in which she lay across the bed, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of her naked chest that told him that she was still alive. She was alive when he left her, racing towards the exit of her estate and away from her. Her dog—the clever mabari—lifted its head at the sound of Fenris’ feet thundering down the stairs. The beast must have smelled his mistress on the elf and, sensing something was amiss, he let out a baleful howl that echoed after Fenris as he made his escape from Hawke’s home.

The streets were wet and slick beneath his bare feet. The rain, falling more heavily than it had when they ducked into the warmth of her home, came in torrents now. Somewhere far off, thunder clapped in response to lightning he couldn’t see. The sky was dark, the clouds impenetrable to any light from the celestial bodies above. Blinded by the darkness and the frigid rain drops that plummeted down into his eyes, Fenris made his way swiftly through the empty streets towards his deserted mansion. He didn’t truly need any of his meager possessions that had been left there, but the clothes he wore beneath his armour were sullied from her touch and the foul wetness of her sex that had lingered on him even as he’d dressed. He felt the filthy, creeping crawl of her contact prickling at his skin, burning and chilling him in rapid turns.

It was worse this time—the filth permeating his being in a way far more total than it had ever been before. It had not just been his skin that she had used; she’d penetrated down to the very depths of his soul. She had imbedded herself within him, consuming his mind, his soul, and every part of him. She had been thorough. She had made him want it. No one had ever managed to drag him that low before. It was a marvel, really, that she had discovered a whole new level of violation; he would have sworn that he had experienced them all.

He didn’t bother with keys when he reached his empty house, but burst through the door instead. It hardly mattered if he damaged it further now; he has no intention of staying and certainly no intention of returning. This was not his home and it never had been; it had always been her city and he had deluded himself into believing that he belonged in it. Every inch of this city and every inch of this decaying building was tainted with her fetid essence. He should have killed her; perhaps then he would have been free of her as he mounted the stairs to his room and began to search frantically for any clothing that he had not taken with him to Hawke’s estate. He wished that he had thought to reclaim his possessions from her before he fled her home, but he had been in too much of a hurry to put as much distance between himself and her as he could. In her mother’s room, his few articles of presentable clothing were heaped neatly at the foot of the bed along with his journal. It had been foolish to leave them; now he was left with nothing but moth-eaten underclothes and torn trousers.

The ceiling was riddled with holes that let the rain fall through as he fumbled through the darkness of the room. There was little of use, but he’d made it many years with even less. This would be no different than before. She was hardly the first to have betrayed and exploited him; she was but another in a long line. She was no different; just another corrupted mage that delighted in tormenting others for no other purpose than the sheer pleasure of causing pain. She was not extraordinary. What was extraordinary was that he had been foolish enough to believe her.

Pacing to the window, his arms full of all that he had gathered to take with him, Fenris glowered out into the dark streets. He could barely make out anything through the rain and night, but he could see that the streets were still empty and that his departure, if kept swift, would draw no attention. Turning from the window, his eyes feel incidentally on the bed. Even in the dim light, he could make out the form of the lute that Hawke had left there when they had been in that room together.

His memories of her were assaultive, coming without his will and without his control. The memory of her fingers, thin and tapered, as they fell across the strings and created a tuneless cacophony that grated at his ears. Yet, as she had played, she’d smiled at him, her eyes bright and her nimble fingers strumming across the instrument with a dexterity that suggested that, if she had ever cared to learn, she might have been quite proficient. He’d thought of instructing her then, of surprising her with lessons somewhere along the way. He’d made no mention of it then, but he had given it some passing thought as he perused the diary that, through her instruction, he had been able to compose and to read. He’d been engrossed in the pages, filled as they were with thoughts of her. He’d been consumed with her, even in a time before his memory. It had seemed promising then, as he had read over the words.

The person he had written of in that diary was as much an illusion as the woman who had watched him flip through its pages. Everything she was and everything she had ever done or said was a fabrication. Fenris shook his head, gritting his teeth into a snarl, and strode to the bed, grasping the lute and hurling it at the wall. Its neck snapped away from the body of the instrument, though the strings still bound the pieces together. He moved forward, stomping on it until his foot came crashing through the fat, arched wood of the base. It did nothing to erase her. He should have killed her; she was everywhere.

She followed him as he passed beyond the outskirts of the city, trailing after him as he fled. The ground rose before him, the arid earth sloping up into the mountains that lay to the north of Kirkwall. They’d come down through these hills on the way down into the city and, as he ran through the lightly wooded terrain, Fenris recognized the places where she had led them. Her presence seemed to linger in the stones and trees. He seemed to feel the warmth of her, the weight of her, as she would press close to him, snaking her hand into his. Even as he consciously deviated from the path that Hawke had blazed, he felt her haunting him with every step he took. Though the city fell behind him, it felt as if she were still close, still beside him, still seeking out his touch. He shook his head, trying to jar her from his mind, but she went nowhere. All he could do was keep running, hoping that he’d eventually outstrip her.

It was hopeless. His memories of her swirled relentlessly in his consciousness. The way she had laughed, and the way her hands had been so warm within his, the way she had held him. Those images were shattered now, replaced by something wretched and looming and bitterly true. The shock of it was still fresh, this new, illuminating memory of her still playing in his mind. Her face when she had turned to him. When she had betrayed him. He heard her voice echoing, _“You’re on your own, Fenris.”_ She had changed so abruptly; his ally in one moment and, in the next, a woman beyond his recognition. He’d been paralyzed with surprise and horror then. And it had happened again. She’d made him trust her again. It seemed impossible. Impossible that he could have known her for months and never seen down to the truth of who she was.

He remembered now, in a flurry that was beyond his control, the signs that he had ignored. The signs that he had been too blind to see. He remembered when she’d been called to him in Minrathous and she had mounted the stained platform with unimaginable grace and with a cold glint in her eyes that he now knew had been one of the first true sights he’d ever had of who she was. Danarius had asked him to thank her and he had. His former master had as much as told him outright that it was Hawke who had sent him back into the magisters’ clutches. But he hadn’t known then about the lapse in time and all the missing years that had been taken from him. He couldn’t have guessed then, even as she stood before him with the same flashing, monstrous eyes as every other mage he’d seen. But there were other times, other instances, when he might have gleaned further information. Flavius had used his dying breath to warn him. To warn him of what she was. And he still hadn’t guessed. He’d been convinced that all that was in his past and hers could fall away. He’d been a deluded fool.

He hadn’t guessed. He couldn’t have expected this. Even with the signs, there had been a hundred things to counter everything that might have worried him. But she was not the woman who has curled against him, her fingertip guiding him down the page while she taught him the words. It wasn’t real. Every time that he’d watched her lips form the words, heard her voice offering him encouragement, and watched her constant, flickering sadness diminishing from her eyes when she drew near enough to him that he could feel her warmth—that had been a lie. It had been a lie when, late at night, when he was without memory and when he had shivered from the cold, she had come and wrapped a blanket over his shoulders. It had been a lie when she had whispered that she loved him, that she wanted him, and let him believe that it was real. _“There’s a word for it. It’s called rape.”_

Rape. Was it? Yes. Perhaps. A violation, at least. A misuse of all she had let him feel for her. A wanton, wretched distortion of an act that had meant something to him. She was no different. No different from the others. He should have killed her. Fenris stopped running abruptly, turning back and glancing in the direction he had come. He did not expect that anyone would come after him so soon, but it did not escape his notice that he, alone and without allies, would be little match for Hawke’s friends if they were to seek retribution for what he had done. Perhaps he would be able to sweep through their numbers and eliminate the threat they posed, but he had no wish for a confrontation of that kind. His quarrel was with Hawke, not with the people who unquestioningly followed her orders. True, they had not fought for him either. They had been there, some of them, and he had seen them do nothing as Hawke betrayed him. As they travelled down from Minrathous, they had told him nothing of what she had done. And yet his anger was not with them; he had not trusted them. It had been Hawke in whom he’d placed his faith. It was her betrayal, not theirs, that astounded and infuriated him.

Fenris turned forward, walking now instead of tearing madly through the wilderness. His body ached and he knew that it would not be much longer before he needed to rest. He knew that any sleep he got would be of the lowest quality—his mind was occupied and his body carried her scent—but he needed to attempt it nonetheless.

He heard the sound of water through the trees and he drew near the stream, walking quickly and trying vainly to keep his mind clear as he removed his clothes at the waters edge. Each movement, each article of clothing and armour that he shed, evoked flashes of her across his mind. Flashes of her as she had carried out this process, panting and smiling and seeming to be nervous and excited at once. _“I want you.”_ He plunged into the water quickly, shocking himself enough with the sudden cold that he was momentarily free of her. The foul echoes of her voice, her touch, were gone from him in that instant, but his freedom was brief. As he lifted his head above the surface and began splashing water over his arms, he felt the filth of her deep beneath his skin. He fell below the water once more, closing his eyes and holding his breath and trying to keep from remembering. He rose to the surface gasping and remembering in spite of all his efforts.

There was no soap or washrag, but he ran his hands over himself, trying to chafe away some of the dirt that was susceptible to being removed from his skin. As he did so, he felt physical manifestations of what couldn’t be washed clean. He felt the tenderness on his back and shoulders of slightly raised scratches. Her fingernails had scraped over him there, marking him. He felt ill. His sickness deepened as he glanced down at his shoulder and, in the pale light of approaching dawn, saw the red impressions that her teeth had left as she had bit back her moans. _“I love you. More than anything.”_

The friction of his hands would never be enough to clean him. Fenris reached out, grasping a small evergreen branch that had broken off its tree and was left adrift on the surface of the water. Many of the needles clung to the twigs and Fenris lifted it, scrubbing at his skin fervently. Small lacerations opened on his skin, accompanying the impressions that Hawke had left, as he violently scrubbed at his body. He felt his skin tearing, felt the prickling of pain as blood beaded up in the new scratches. But it was better than feeling her on him. Anything was better than that.

It was a long while before he emerged from the water. He dressed slowly, bowing his head and staring at the ground. He was exhausted beyond what he would have thought possible. He felt as if all his strength had been artfully syphoned away and he knew that he was left with few other options but to rest for a few hours.

Though the rain had stopped in the hours since he had fled from Kirkwall, the ground was still wet. The entire landscape was drenched and every fallen log that he might have used to light a fire was soaked through. He had no canvas to construct a shelter and no blanket to wrap around himself. He reminded himself that he had been in this position many times. It was no different this time and he would rather be cold than sit in the glowing circle of warmth emitted by a mage’s fire. He sat with his spine against a tree and pulled his knees tight to his chest.

He had become well acquainted, in the many years that had spanned between his initial escape from Danarius and the moment he had met Hawke, with this state. There had been whole months during which he had spoken with no one. There had been years when he never depended on another living soul to light fires or erect shelters. He had shivered in the cold before and this was no different. No different expect that now a mirage appeared before him as she continued to torment him mercilessly. _“You’re cold, aren’t you?”_ she’d asked as she knelt before him, draping a blanket over his shoulders. And she had smiled and she had rubbed warmth into his arms and she had brushed back the hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Her gentle hands, her soft voice, her body that had cleaved so perfectly to his. He shook his head, clamping down his teeth on his inner cheek to punish himself for his sentimental remembrances of the monster who had deceived him in the most unforgivable ways. She had hardly been the first to be gentle with him. She wasn’t the first to murmur kind words and touch him with soft hands. Fenris remembered all the warm nights when the air had come across the orchards and settled across his naked skin with its balmy weight. He remembered one night when the balcony doors had hung open, letting in a light breeze as summer was on the cusp of fall. His body had ached from having been split open by insistent, blunt thrusts. The sheets were speckled with red drops of blood and the whip that had torn through his skin lay limp on the ground without the momentum of a magister’s rising and falling hand to make it taut and fast and vicious against his back. Hollowed out, he lay sprawled out across the sheets. He was more sore then than he had been during those first frantic, desperate intrusions that had followed the lashings. He had screamed then, trying to bite back the sound but only succeeding in tearing off a small portion of his cheek and filling his mouth with the salt of his own blood. After the screaming was through, he was left panting, gritting his teeth and fighting the whimpering whines of pain that kept pealing from his throat.

That had been the first time. The time when he had learned what he was to be used for. Fingers clutching at the sheets and every moment stretched out to last a lifetime. His first memories after the lyrium had been inscribed, were indelibly impressed on him as irrevocably as the markings themselves. A warm night. The summer calls of the owls echoing mournfully through the gardens. In those moments, he had realized what life was. It was pain. And being used. It was people taking what they needed from each other. He hadn’t needed Hawke to teach him that; she had only reminded him of the lessons he had already been taught a thousand different times on a thousand different nights by all the clutching hands that reached for him through the darkness. He’d let himself forget these lessons. It had been Hawke who had made him forget. It had been Hawke who made him remember.

The gentleness that came before was nothing, just another act. Danarius had taught him that too. After that first time, when the time for pain was done, came the tenderness that was more agonizing to remember than anything else. Gentle hands, soft voices, soothing ointments spread over his wounds that had made him sigh with the comfort of healing. Danarius’ wide, flat hands massaging his shoulders while the salt water of reluctant tears dried on Fenris’ cheeks. The night was peaceful, with stars scattered across the sky and candles burning on the beside table. Danarius murmured that he hadn’t meant to be so harsh; his days had been long and his irritation and hate and harshness had not been meant for Fenris. “You know I love my little wolf,” he had whispered, his lips soft and his beard rough as he pressed light kisses against the nape of Fenris’ neck. And when Danarius had said those words, Fenris had almost believed him. And when Hawke had said them, he had believed it entirely. He had felt her words down to his core. He had believed that she loved him and, when she’d said it, he had almost responded in kind.

He shouldn’t have let himself forget that there was never truth in what they said. Believe half of what you see and none of what you hear. She hadn’t loved him. It was never true when they said it. It was never real. Mages only offered illusions before yanking away the hope they gave. What she’d offered had been something so bright and glittering that he was a fool to have ever believed in it. Love. A soft, warm body that would lie beside him through the nights. A woman that would belong to him as much as he belonged to her. Mornings with yellow sunlight, fresh sheets, and hot, writhing bodies joining and panting and clinging on until the end. And a family, perhaps. Elf-featured children with her amber eyes that would look to him as if he were strong and had some protection to offer them from the horrors of the world. An end to cold nights. An end to returning to an empty room and hearing only the echo of his own footsteps as he traced the same familiar trails on a dusty floor. Of course, she had never truly offered him those things. He’d imagined it. He hoped for it even as she pulled away, telling him that she had to say goodbye.

She’d let him imagine it. She’d encouraged it, pressing closer, being kind, never speaking of what had come before. She had let him believe that he wanted a future with her. He hadn’t cared about the past. He’d wanted to leave it behind—hers, but most of all his. But it was a part of him and it was all of her. Whoever she was and whatever she had done since was eclipsed by a single moment. He had trusted her and she had betrayed him. He had loved her and she had let him do it.

_“I feel like I’m taking advantage.”_ She had drawn back, separating from him, and she had run into the darkness. He had offered himself to her then, when they were secluded in the woods and pressed fiercely against one another, and she had run. He remembered the frustration he held felt towards her then, when she left him there, his body throbbing with need. He remembered the hurt and the loneliness and confusion of the silent weeks when she had avoided his gaze, pulling away after every accidental contact and seeming more overcome with the sorrow he had seen so often. It was senseless, if she meant only to use him. It was all senseless. There was no rational reason for giving him to Danarius only to come and retrieve him. It was madness that she should pull away when she wanted to be near him. There was no reason for it. No reason except for the impossible. Because she hadn’t loved him. It didn’t matter if she had. _“I don’t care what you’ve done in the past.”_ He had said that. But that had been a lie like everything else that had passed between them.

The only truth there was between them lay in the solitary memory of her betrayal. She was a traitor and he was a fool. If he had known what she was before he’d held her, he would have killed her. He wanted to and he could have. What he couldn’t begin to fathom was why he had left her alive. Fenris groaned audibly, running his fingers back through his hair, and tried to find some sense to it. He remembered when his hands had been around her throat, when he had been looking down into her eyes. She hadn’t fought him in those moments. She hadn’t clawed at his arms or used her magic or even tried to squirm free. All she had done then was look up at him with wide eyes. There was no surprise then nor any pleading. He had killed before—killed slaves and slavers, men and women—and he had never seen that expression from any living creature as it let go of life. Remembering her eyes, he realized what it was that had made him pull away; she had wanted to die. He had been on the verge of killing her and she had wanted him to do it. And it was that, more than anything else, that he couldn’t understand.

Fenris opened his eyes, realizing that sleep was never going to come while she was in his mind forcing him to question everything. She had wanted him to kill her and he needed to know why. There was only one explanation that he could think of. But that was impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don’t remember Hawke saying some of the things that Fenris remembers in this chapter, then I really can’t fault you for that.


	28. Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves an in-game quest (A New Path) and canon events. There are numerous major/minor spoilers as well as dialogue from the game itself. You have been warned. I will also say that I have taken some artistic license with some of the details of this quest.
> 
> My apologies in advance for the drawn out combat scenes. Feel free to skim.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Self-harm and canon-typical violence.

> _“Just give me a life to bleed_  
>  _Another world outside that’s full of_  
>  _All the awful things that I made._  
>  _‘Cause we are the last disease_  
>  _Another broken life that’s full of_  
>  _All the awful things that I made.”  
>  _ -Professional Griefers (feat. Gerard Way), deadmau5

“Hawke?” It was Aveline’s voice trembling through the cool, morning air of Sundermount. The name bore repeating twice more before Hawke’s attention was successfully caught. Looking up, she glanced forward towards the others. Aveline stood at the head of the party now, her sword still slightly bloodied from the entrails of bandits, and an expression of concern on her face as she glanced towards where Hawke was standing. She was positioned well behind the rest of them, having found a scroll alongside the trail and become immersed in the perusal of it. Admittedly, Hawke had not truly been studying the text emblazoned on the scroll whilst the others drew ahead of her. There was a notch, she saw, in the parchment that looked as though it had been chewed away by rats. With the scroll unfolded in her hand, she had absently stared at the small bite marks. She’d begun to imagine some anonymous rat, scurrying up to the rolled scroll and, with yellowing teeth, peeling away some of the paper before running off to add that gathered scrap to the nest it was building for its small, pink babies. This had been happening to her mind of late. Increasingly, she was finding it difficult to focus on any one thing in particular without her thoughts drifting off to some far away, imaginary place. Her companions, she knew, were beginning to be concerned for her. They were, she had to own, not without cause to worry.

Drawing up towards the others, tucking the scroll away, Hawke made a concerted effort to smile. “Sorry. I got distracted.” Placing her hand on Merrill’s shoulder, she added, “But rest assured that I am still fully committed to helping you achieve your goals.”

“That makes one of us,” murmured Aveline from ahead, turning and beginning to walk once more towards the camp that lay ahead. It was well concealed amongst these hillsides, having shifted throughout the years as the wild elves continued to evade any humans that might object to the proximity of a Dalish camp. The paths that wove through the foothills, leading through narrow crevasses and over steep inclines, were barely detectable to the untrained eye. Only a person intent on finding the Dalish would ever be likely to do so when their trails were so discreet. It was necessary for the elves to be careful when the threat of the nearby humans was continual. Even as she and her companions made their way up the mountainside, Hawke was well aware that there were likely to be many arrows trained on them. She had only even been able to traverse this landscape in relative safety because Keeper Marethari had explicitly requested it.

As they moved onwards, Hawke’s eyes flickered upwards to where she caught sight of a lone bird flying in circles overhead. A hawk, if she could venture a guess based on its wingspan. It cried out, its plaintive shriek breaking across the landscape. Turning her eyes down once more, Hawke shook her head. The day was bleak. As they drew upwards to higher altitudes, the air was growing colder and the clouds overhead seemed to be becoming evermore dark and heavy. Not far off, she could hear the rumbling sound of thunder that gave her little hope that the storm would pass by them. Around them, the evergreen trees shook in the wind, their needles whispering as they chafed against one another. Hawke listened intently, trying to make words of the rustling. His name was like the sound of wind rushing over stone; she heard it everywhere and often.

It was apparent that they were drawing near to the camp when, after dipping through an area of denser trees, the flags of the Sabrae Clan could be seen erected beside the path. It was a sign, Hawke expected, that the pride of the clan was greater than their desire to be completely hidden within the wilderness. In all likelihood, most humans who made it far enough to lay eyes on these banners would not live long afterwards. Hawke strode forward, pulling up alongside Aveline before stopping abruptly in front of one of the banners. Its fabric was pulled taut, filled by the invisible pressure of the chilling wind. The emblem, ivory-hued on a field of faded vermillion, had never struck Hawke’s notice much before that day. She had always careened forward, walking undaunted into the camp in pursuit of whatever it was that she sought. Today, she stared into the empty, hollowed eyes of the halla’s skull and felt as though those empty sockets looked back at her. She knew the value of the halla; the importance it had to the Dalish. When it faded, their way of life faded with it. The elves and the halla were connected, dependent, and intertwined. She wondered how it felt for this clan now that they were robbed of that which had been so much a part of their lives for so long. They must feel as lost and hollow as the empty, staring eyes of their sigil.

“Hawke?” It was Varric this time, walking beside her and lightly nudging her with his elbow.

She’d done it again; she’d allowed her mind to wander and her demeanor to alter enough that her companions noticed. It was difficult to avoid when their attention was as focused on her as it had been of late. They were always watching, searching for signs that she was crumbling and they never had to search for long. Hawke felt a small pang whenever she knew that she was causing them to worry, but those small twinges of guilt were so insignificant within the already howling choir of her remorse that she found it altogether too easy to relapse into melancholia.

Shaking her head, she smiled again. “Sorry, Varric. I guess I lost myself again. Funny how that keeps happening, isn’t it?”

He indulged her with the merest of smiles. “Well, I’m not clutching my sides with laughter yet, but if it makes you chuckle then who am I to question it? It’s good to see you out of the house, anyway. And bathed, judging from the sudden absence of that musky odor you were developing for a while there.”

Hawke nodded, fidgeting with the dry, splitting ends of her hair. “It was getting about time to wash. Even my mabari was beginning to judge me.”

Varric let out a slight bark of laughter. “Well, your canine friend does have a discerning nose.” Then, eyes drifting over her, Varric added, with a hint of concern creeping cautiously into his tone, “Though you might have let Blondie heal some of those bruises. They look… uncomfortable.”

In the short time that had passed since Fenris had left, the bruises on Hawke’s throat had only grown darker. Though the light specks of blood from the burst capillaries had faded from her cheeks within the first day, the marks on her throat had deepened to a shade that was almost black. Blossoming outwards from those dark epicenters were deep bruises of scarlet and purple that were very much shaped like two hands encircling Hawke’s throat. Anders had offered to heal them, of course, but she had not allowed it or any other erasure of the markings Fenris had left. “I wanted to keep them,” murmured Hawke, looking away from Varric and off towards the camp. She could feel his eyes on her, feel the growing concern in them as he looked at her. She had spoken to none of them about what she had done to Fenris or about what he had done to her in return, but she had little doubt in her mind that Anders had shared some of the more intriguing details with the others. Varric and the others pried no further into the matter and she divulged nothing new. Still, she often caught them staring at her neck. She supposed that she couldn’t blame them. Anxiously, she toyed with her robes, pulling the sleeves down over her wrists. “Let’s go,” said Hawke, lifting her head and addressing all of her companions. She heard Varric let out a little sigh, as if he were frustrated with Hawke’s resistance to share her inner turmoil with the others, but Aveline and Merrill only nodded and began to head round the bend into the camp.

As they walked together past the aravels and into the clearing that the Dalish used as their central gathering place, Hawke felt the sharp eyes of the elven hunters following their every motion. It was not an atypical welcome, given that the Dalish were uneasy around humans and not particularly easy around Merrill either. Merrill, who walked at Hawke’s side, tilted her head down slightly as if avoiding the gaze of her clansmen would somehow make her less aware of their cold eyes. Her training with the Keeper had always made Merrill distant from the rest of her people and her use of blood magic had ensured that she would never find comfort among her clan. Hawke frowned slightly, glancing towards Master Ilen as he shook his head and went back to organizing the tidy heaps of his wares.

As the ground of the clearing turned upwards, lifting up into the steeper inclines of the mountain, two branching paths led off into the wilderness. In the light undergrowth of the forest, the slightest trails had been worn from the frequent use of the hunters. Hawke herself had often come to Sundermount throughout the years, but was unaware which of these two paths would lead to the demon of which Merrill had spoken. In truth, it seemed odd to Hawke that the Dalish would have made their temporary settlement in a place where the Veil was so thin and where there was a demon trapped not far from where the elves lay their heads to rest each night. “Which way?” asked Hawke, glancing over towards Merrill.

Merrill’s expression had hardened slightly as she gazed up ahead and, when Hawke followed Merrill’s eyeline, she saw why. Just beside the trailhead that rose most steeply into the mountains, stood the Keeper. Her large eyes were turned to them, watching their movements with a resolute expression that told Hawke that they would be unlikely to pass by her without at least some passing conversation. Clearly, that idea was bringing Merrill no pleasure at a time like this. “So… past the Keeper then?” asked Hawke, to which Merrill nodded grimly, her hands twitching against the verdant cloth of her tunic. Hawke sighed, looking back towards the Keeper and beginning to make her way towards the path. “No point putting off the inevitable,” she muttered as the others trailed after her.

“Welcome home, da’len,” the Keeper said, her greeting summoning them over to her.

“This isn’t a homecoming, Keeper,” replied Merrill, her voice growing brusque. “Why is the clan even here? You should have moved on ages ago!”

Though the Keeper did not say it, Hawke knew the answer to Merrill’s inquiries. Marethari kept the clan there because Merrill remained in Kirkwall. They remained because she did and the Keeper was unwilling to leave behind the First she had so loved while there was still so much left undetermined about Merrill’s future. The eluvian bound them both to the city, though each wished a different fate for the mirror. But Marethari did not speak these words. She spoke instead of unfinished business and uncertain times. Looking off further down the path ahead, Hawke allowed her attention to wander as Merrill further urged the Keeper to leave Sundermount. Merrill didn’t understand, it seemed. She didn’t see the impossibility of leaving a loved one behind.

“We will stay until my business is done,” the Keeper said impassively, dismissing Merrill’s remonstrance with her usual imperial nonchalance. Turning, she added, “If you are not returning to us, what has brought you back?”

Merrill fell silent, her boldness falling away as the conversation called for her to explicitly mention the task at hand. It was this matter that had divided her from her clan and, when she spoke to Marethari, it was always this matter that caused her the most anxiety and discomfort. Never to Hawke’s memory had Merrill been able to broach the subject of the eluvian without someone at her side to speak on her behalf when the words became difficult to utter. The person doing the speaking at that juncture was, more often than not, Hawke herself. Never before had this struck Hawke as particularly odd; she was well accustomed to taking control of conversations and speaking over others. Now, however, she found herself wondering why it was that Merrill looked at her with wide, expectant eyes. She found herself wondering if the reason that Merrill could not speak was because she was ashamed.

Looking down at her hands, studying the blood that had pooled beneath her fingernails and the faint bruises on her fingertips, Hawke asked, “Can you tell us anything that might help Merrill fix the eluvian? It would be appreciated.” She flicked one of her bruised fingernails against her thumb before looking back up at Marethari, whose face was stern and filled with sorrow.

“I wouldn’t restore that cursed thing even if I could,” she replied looking flatly towards Merrill, who was doing her best not to be cowed by the Keeper’s stern air. “It has stolen life and promise from my clan already. And this was the least treacherous thing it was capable of doing. You must come to your senses, Merrill. This evil cannot be allowed in our world.”

Merrill’s hands tightened into fists at her side. “It is a part of our world!” she shot back at the Keeper, her voice rising. Hawke found herself drawing back, her eyes turning uneasily back towards the trail. She wanted to move onwards; she wanted the day to be done and. Though the day had scarcely begun, her body already felt heavy and, all around her, the trees were whispering incessantly. She scratched at her arm, digging her fingernails harshly across her skin. Merrill was still arguing with Marethari and Hawke’s attention was only drawn back to them when she heard her own name and realized that Merrill wanted to keep going. “Oh,” Hawke murmured, somewhat embarrassed to have been addressed while her mind was so far from the present.

As they brushed past the Keeper, Hawke knew that it was not the only one who had been made uneasy by the argument. Marethari was a good woman and one whom it was difficult not to respect; none among their number much liked to witness the hostility which sometimes arose between her and Merrill when the matter of the eluvian came into question. Merrill walked on faster than the others, seeming to flee from the tension she felt while in the presence of her mentor. Hawke believed she understood; she’d been on the receiving end of her father’s rebukes often enough to know the irritation and hurt that comes with disappointing a loved and admired figure. Hawke smiled softly at the memory of her father. He had wanted her to be compassionate, she had wanted to be powerful. It was a wonder how seldom those two things were found together. Shaking away the reminiscence, she jogged lightly up until she reached Merrill’s side. “Just because you have started down a path doesn’t mean you have to continue down it,” said Hawke, keeping her voice low so that the others would not hear. Merrill glanced over towards her, brow furrowing slightly, and Hawke rattled on quickly, “You heard what the Keeper said and, if something happens to you, I don’t relish the idea of destroying yet another one of my friends.” She tried smiling to dull the discouraging edge of her words.

“Please, Hawke,” whispered Merrill, looking back towards Varric and Aveline to make sure they weren’t listening. “I cannot do this without your support. Please don’t abandon me now.”

Hawke shook her head. “I won’t,” she replied quickly. With a heavy sigh, she added, “I won’t tell you what to do, Merrill; Maker knows that my judgment is less than stellar. But I feel like I wouldn’t be doing my duty as your friend if I didn’t remind you that the decisions you make now are yours to live with for the rest of your life. And that’s… well, that’s a lot to live with sometimes.”

She could sense Merrill’s irritation with her and knew that Merrill was fighting to keep her voice low as she said, “I need this, Hawke. My people need this. They may not see it now, but after all that’s been lost to us, I cannot simply cast aside the last hope there is of regaining a portion of our history. I _need_ to do this. If something goes wrong, I will be the one to suffer. This is my task and my burden… but I need you with me. The Keeper won’t believe in me… please tell me you will.” Her eyes were large and pleading. Those large, olive irises and the flecks of gold around the pupil that changed with the light. Hawke stared into those eyes, lost in them for the briefest glimmer of a moment before she smiled and nodded her head decisively.

“Well, alright then,” she said, bringing her voice up to its ordinary volume. “I’m with you.” As brightly as she could manage, Hawke smiled in an effort to assuage some of the annoyance that her warnings had clearly kindled in Merrill. Though the smile seemed to mollify the elf somewhat, Hawke still found herself drifting backwards towards the rear of the party and away from the chill that now stretched between her and the other mage. Unfortunately, a chill of a different sort passed over the group as a light, trickling fog began to roll down the mountainside and sweep across the ground at their feet. Hawke wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her shoulders, as they continued to trudge up the rapidly steepening slope.

Progress up the mountainside was not made easy for them. Just as they had climbed a particularly steep set of stairs that had been hewn into the slope, they entered a small clearing that, to everyone’s chagrin, was teeming with spiders. Hawke, who was not especially fond of even the small, normal variety of arachnids, found the large ones even more distasteful. The encounter was made more unpleasant by a wretched trick of her mind that occurred the very instant she heard the first skittering sounds of the attacking spiders; she imagined Fenris. She imagined him as he had been as they were making their way through the Bone Pit. She imagined him charging at the spiders, slicing through their hard shells and leaving them in pieces. For a moment, she paused, rendered unresponsive by the abruptness of the memory. More than a heartbeat had passed before she thought to attack the beasts that came racing towards her with impossible speed. Aveline had already made her first assault on one of the creatures and Varric and Merrill had already charged further up the path, positioning themselves so that they could strike against their attackers from an elevated position. This left Hawke relatively isolated and the spiders, always able to exploit the vulnerability of their prey, came bearing down on her. The haziness of her mind, she realized, was becoming a definite liability.

Dodging away from the glistening pincers of one of the creatures, Hawke sent a flurry of snow to slow down the others that were making their way for her. While they were halted, she shattered one of them into oblivion with a powerful strike of stone that slammed with a brutal crunch against the spider’s exoskeleton. Aveline, hearing the sound, turned from the opponent that she had just felled and came tearing to Hawke’s side, her eyes glinting as she struck down one of the spiders that was just lurching free from the icy confines of Hawke’s magic. Then, with a reassuring nod to Hawke, Aveline was off again, sailing off to provide support to the others.

It was not long before carcasses littered the clearing. It was not such a challenge, in open spaces such as this, to dart out of the way of their long, spindly legs and flashing fangs. In spite of the relative ease of slaying the spiders, Hawke and the others were still panting slightly as they mounted another short staircase that led further up the slope. When they reached its summit, a small hunter’s camp lay ahead. The Dalish often built small fires and shelters in clearings along the trail so that it was not necessary to return all the way to the base of the mountain whenever they needed a bit of rest or the warmth of a fire. The hunter who had used this camp must have only recently been there, for the fire still blazed enthusiastically at the center of the clearing. Pausing at the top of the stairs, Hawke allowed her eyes to be caught by the golden dance of the flames. They were lovely as they consumed the logs that had been set beneath them; lovely as they turned everything to ashes. “Whoever was here must have just left,” she stated stupidly as the others stood beside her.

“It’s a popular camp for our hunters,” said Merrill with a nod. “The stones of the ruins provide shelter when the winds grow too cold.”

Hawke began to walk forward towards the fire when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of movement. By the time that Hawke heard Varric shout out a warning, she had already turned her attention to the rearing figure that rose into sight just beyond the ruins of a stone wall. It seemed to roll upwards, unfurling, as it brought itself to standing. Its shoulders, broad and covered by the ornate cloth of its enchanter’s robes, rolled back as it finally lifted its head. With outstretched hands, the Arcane Horror hovered above the ground, its body prepared for combat.

Hawke reacted quickly this time, running back in the direction she had come even as Aveline rushed forward to make her first attack on their foe. No sooner had they begun this changing of positions, however, than did the monstrous creature wink out of existence and then, in a breath, rematerialize directly in Hawke’s path. The flagstone beneath her feet was wet from the mist and the growth of moss and, unable to halt her charge, Hawke collided directly with the creature she’d been attempting to flee. Swirling around her, embracing her body and the skeletal, decaying form of her opponent, was a mist that prickled across her skin and made her gasp as she suddenly felt the drain of its power. Before she could be wrapped in the long, thin arms that sought to snatch her, Hawke fell back out of the mist, racing back towards the fire. She still felt the burn of the dancing, purple mist as it bore down deeper into her skin, trickling into her blood and weakening her. As she turned, sending a fiery torrent of magic towards the Horror, she felt the lingering pain in her lungs from the entropic energy that she had inhaled.

Crying out, Aveline hurled herself into the thick of the struggle. It never failed to dazzle Hawke that she knew a woman so fearless in the face of danger and so unrelentingly determined. Smiling at the sound of Aveline’s impassioned battle cries, Hawke whirled about to face the shades that had risen up around her and Varric. Merrill, having fallen to the edges of the fray and situated herself atop the low ruins of the wall, sent her own attacks to aid Aveline. The warrior shouted out her gratitude when her opponent became locked in stone that rose up from the ground, spiraling around its feet and fixing it in place while it tried vainly to fend of a sudden flurry of strikes from the Aveline’s keen sword and unrelenting shield.

Its size was great, towering over even Aveline, and the bonds of Merrill’s magic could not hold the creature long. Irate and bellowing, it released itself from the stone as another army of its shades swarmed around the encampment. They came swiftly for Merrill, drawn in by the alluring call of her powerful magic, while Hawke and Varric tried frantically to contend with the numbers that circled around them already. Finally dispatching the first onslaught of shades, Hawke tried to rush to Merrill’s aid, but arrived just in time to watch her companion overwhelmed by their numbers. Merrill was weakened, gasping and falling back with exhaustion, as one of the shades lurched forward with its hard, shining body and crashed against her. She cried out under the impact, her head jerking to the side as she crumpled to the ground. Somewhere behind her, Hawke heard Varric call out superfluously that they had lost Merrill. Undeterred, Hawke threw herself into the midst of the writhing, surging shades so that they would not exploit the unconsciousness of her comrade. They clustered around her hungrily, craving the strength that infused her body. Hawke grinned savagely, her eyes lighting, as she felt their hard shells butting against her. The prickle of their energy was nothing compared to the pain she would bring upon them. Grasping her staff, she sent a coursing chain of lightning through them that left them howling with otherworldly agony while they reared back, their monocular heads rolling from side to side.

The triumph of this moment was short-lived, however. In her peripheral vision, Hawke caught sight of a glowing blue light that was emanating throughout the center of the camp. “Aveline, run!” she shouted, turning towards the light. It was useless. Though Aveline tried desperately to flee from the epicenter of the fresh assault, it drew her in irresistibly so that she might as well have been attempting to escape a riptide. Amongst the dazzling glow of the light, the Arcane Horror seemed to dance, its arms flailing eerily while it cast its spells. Aveline, realizing that it was useless to escape the pull of the magic, swung out weakly with her sword, opening a wound in the creature’s degraded flesh just before her body grew limp and fell at last to the ground.

Varric was beside Hawke now, his cheeks ruddy with the blood that now pumped furiously through his veins. His gaze met Hawke’s and she prayed that he didn’t see the wildness in her eyes. It was just the two of them now. Without Aveline to draw attention away from her, Hawke knew that the Arcane Horror would come lapping at the intoxicating pool of her own power. Ordinarily, such a thing might thrill her, the danger enlivening her pulsing blood. But she knew she was in no state for such a thing now; she was already worn thin from eliminating the shades and it was not only the depletion of her magic that left her concerned. Every fearful gulp she took caused the remaining damage within her throat to ache; every movement of her body reminded her that she hadn’t slept; every passing moment threatened to remind her that she was almost out of reasons to fight.

But she raised her staff nonetheless, letting her magic well as much as it could while Varric relentlessly shot forth his arrows and yelled out his mocking cries of victory in a breathless voice. As the Arcane Horror sped towards him, their frantic defense finally left it unable to continue and, with its ghastly limbs lifted in its weightless dance, the creature finally lost the last of its strength and burst, in a cloud of purple wisps, into nothingness.

When they awoke, shaken into consciousness by Varric and Hawke, Aveline and Merrill were both groggy and sore but otherwise unharmed. “We should still take a moment to rest,” suggested Hawke. “Even without the constant barrage of things that want to kill us, this steep slope is still murder on my delicate constitution.” She received no complaints from the others and, their bodies flagging, they collapsed into seated positions around the still crackling fire. Though they were in relaxed postures and the fire’s warmth soothed their muscles, there was little peace in those moments. The mists of Sundermount were still rolling and the thunder continued to echo through the thinning trees and, all throughout their small number, there was a sense that what lay ahead of them was very dire indeed. While Hawke stared into the fire, trying to ready her mind for the combat that she was sure lay but a bit further down the path, she overheard Varric mumbling something to Merrill about the fact that this whole business was unlikely to end well. In spite of her assurances that it would, at the very least, make an exciting story, he seemed hardly enthused about the idea of leading her to a demon as though she were a lamb to the slaughter. Hawke glanced up at Merrill and frowned slightly. It made her almost envious to see the sheer number of people who were attempting to steer Merrill away from this dangerous path she was determined to tread. She wished that she had had someone who had shouted some sense into her when she was careening down the road to her own destruction and Fenris’. Then again, perhaps they had. Yes, there had been those who told her not to send Fenris off to slavery; there had been voices rising up to tell her to tell him the truth before it was too late; there had been those few that warned her not to fall in love with him. She hadn’t listened. She was beginning to wonder if anyone ever listened or whether every one of them was simply too proud to heed the advice others gave.

Sighing, Hawke rose from her seat beside the fire and dusted off her robes. “We should move on,” she murmured.

The others rose while Hawke did a cursory sweep of the campsite to ensure that none of them had dropped anything of importance during the struggle. There had been an incident, several years back, when she had lost one of her mother’s earrings during a skirmish and the lecture she’d received had been so irritating that, for all the years that followed, Hawke had always checked the battlefield for anything she might have lost. In this instance, she was pleased to see that she had not lost hold of anything of value. There was, however, something on the ground that caught her attention. It was a scroll very much like the one she had discovered not far from the Dalish camp. Stooping down to pick it up, she unrolled the parchment. “It’s another scroll like the other,” she announced, lifting the papers into the air. “And there’s a map as well.”

Varric walked forward, shaking his head. “Why do I feel like we’re asking for trouble just reading those things?”

Hawke stared at the scroll for a moment more before rolling it up and saying, with a small shrug to Varric, “You’re probably right. I can’t remember the last time something good came of my snooping through other people’s papers.”

“Well, there was that rather nice poem of Isabela’s,” interjected Merrill thoughtfully. “I thought it was just lovely. Though she didn’t seem very pleased to have you read it, did she?”

Hawke smiled ruefully. “Yet another valuable lesson about what happens when you ignore other people’s personal boundaries,” she said dryly, stashing away the scroll. “I think I had bruises on for a week after that one.” As if on cue, three sets of eyes flicked to the marks on Hawke’s neck. Well, she had walked right into it, she supposed. “Alright,” Hawke grumbled, “let’s get going before something else pops up to kill us.”

Between that clearing, however, and the cave that led down into Sundermount Passage, there were no more enemies rising up against them. It was a small relief at least. The whipping wind was cool up there and had the crisp scent of air that was entirely untouched by the smog and stink of city life. On every breath of the fresh breeze that Hawke inhaled, there was also the faint metallic tinge that alerted her to the coming storm that hung in the blackening clouds overhead. Still, the dirt would not turn to mud with the incipient rain for some time yet; she had time enough to take a moment before travelling through the dark, moist passage that led to the other face of the mountain.

Around the edges of the outcropping where they stood, there were more remains of walls that had long since toppled to the ground. Hawke leapt suddenly up onto one of the lower stones of the ruins and caused a thrill of panic in all the others as they reached out their hands, ready to snatch her back from the ledge if she jumped. She had no intention of jumping, however, though she remembered a time when the thought of plummeting down from a cliff had seemed like her only option. The air had been cool like this, fresh like this, as she looked down over the cliffs of the Wounded Coast and curled her toes over the edge. As it did now, the wind had lifted her hair and set it streaming behind her like a banner. That night, when she’d stolen away from her lover’s arms and gone quietly to the shore, she’d wanted to die. The guilt had been so acute then that she’d been unable to live with the prospect of going a lifetime bearing that same burden. That was unchanged as well. If anything, the weight had grown heavier. She felt her body and her soul groaning beneath it with each moment that passed. It seemed to weigh her down so heavily that it was almost a wonder that the ruins she stood upon did not crumble beneath her.

She envisioned herself jumping. She envisioned her body striking against the stones as she fell down towards the base of Sundermount—first her arm cracking against a stone, then her femur breaking out of her skin as her leg hit heavily against another protruding rock, then, finally, her skull dashed to bits and her life bursting free of her in a shower of blood and brain matter. The crows would feast upon her then, their beaks growing red as they dipped down to tear free the flesh of her neck that was still bruised from Fenris’ hands. Her thoughts had often turned in this dark direction since his departure. In those moments, it was the memory of his hands that kept her from putting an end to all of it. His hands that could have squeezed the life from her. His hands that had released her in those last moments and left her to live on without him. It was he who had let her live and, with all her heart, she knew that she would never be able to throw away what he had allowed her to keep.

Still, she stood atop the ruins, the wind drying her eyes even as they grew wet with the promise of tears. Without him, she felt a yawning hollowness where she suspected her heart was supposed to be. Without him, she felt as if she had lost direction and somehow evaded her fate. She had been sure that he would kill her; she had even hoped for it. But she was alive and, somewhere in the world, so was he. The man she loved lived on and he had allowed her to do the same; she couldn’t do him the dishonor of dismissing his mercy. Hawke turned away from the fall that beckoned to her, and hopped back down to stand beside the others. Together, they moved onwards into the darkness of the mountain.

The smell of the wet earth enveloped them as they moved through the caverns, travelling cautiously over the narrow walkways that extended between deep pits and wound around stalagmites that rose sharply and suddenly from the ground all around them. Though there was, as they first entered the underground passage, a small shower of falling rock, Hawke was pleased to find that they were not immediately mobbed by spiders. This good fortune, however, was somewhat dimmed for Hawke when they happened to meander past a small cavern lit by the same luminescent insects that she had pointed out to Fenris not so very long ago. Though it felt like ages since he’d gone, she could still feel the slight, almost pleasant bruising within her body where he had thrust against her deepest point. Blushing, Hawke bowed her head and, pausing for a moment, stomped with as much force as she could muster on the arch of her other foot while no one was watching. Wincing, she limped onwards after the others and down the small staircase that led deeper into the earth.

As they drew near the foot of the stairs, Hawke looked appraisingly at the fire that had been kindled there. It was, she could tell, another one of the fires kept burning by Dalish hunters. Around it, on a small bench, she could see the supplies necessary for a short hunting expedition. It was a wonder to her that any hunters continued to come this deep into the mountains when so much death and disaster had occurred here. Still, she was grateful for the light of the fire as they made there way deeper into the caverns, which were lit only by the pale strains of sunlight that could burst through the gaps in the stone face of the mountain.

They were nearly through the passage when Hawke heard the rustle of spiders as they descended from the shadows above. “Not again,” groaned Hawke, wheeling around to hurl fire at the grotesque creatures. No sooner had the spiders been dispatched, however, than did a warrior, swathed in darkness and shadows, appear in their path. Rushing towards the warrior along with Aveline, Hawke used the heel of her staff to stab into her opponent’s abdomen. While he fought on, struggling on in spite of injury, Hawke judged from the sounds behind her that Varric and Merrill were fighting shades or something of that sort. She was well pleased when the sound of that struggle came to an end and one of Varric’s arrows drove deeply into the shadow warrior’s skull, finishing it swiftly in a bath of dark blood.

When they emerged into the gray light that managed to struggle through the thickening clouds. Somewhere quite nearby, thunder rattled. “We should move quickly,” she said as they began to head down the slope towards the graveyard that housed the bodies of the elves that had lived among these hills long before the Sabrae clan had arrived. “We don’t want to get caught out in this storm.”

“We may need to pause for a moment,” said Merrill, glancing around cautiously at the graves before continuing onwards towards a large stone alter that lay ahead of them. Merrill drew near it slowly, approaching the edge of the cliff that was lined with the mossy rocks that, like all of the ruins that were scattered in these mountains, seemed to be the remnants of the elves who had come before. Hawke trailed slowly after Merrill, her eyes roving over the landscape as they made their progress. She had been ambushed too many times in this graveyard to go careening towards shrines without at least scanning the terrain for further shadow warriors. This time, however, it seemed that these slopes were safe. Her muscles relaxing somewhat, Hawke glanced towards Merrill as the elf ceremoniously approached the large block of stone.

Atop the alter, there were small black sacks that were no doubt filled with offerings and, among them, sat a candle with a flame of brilliant blue. Merrill stared into that flame thoughtfully as she spoke and Hawke stared curiously at Merrill. “Mythal, all-mother, protector of the People, watch over us for the path we tread is perilous. Save us from the darkness, as you did before, and we will sing your name to the heavens.” Her voice was low and full of weight, but, when she turned back to the others, a smile flickered across her lips as she added, her voice in its usual lilting tones, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hold us. You just—it’s never wise to ignore Mythal. The People never neglect Mythal’s shrines. She—it’s dangerous. They say if Mythal smiles on you, then you need fear nothing at all. But those who anger her… they’re struck from the earth. As if they never lived at all.” As her words wore on, her voice acquired an ominous tone of foreboding.

Glancing thoughtfully towards the shrine, Hawke said, “Would you like to leave an offering? It looks as though others have and I think we do have some coin to spare. If you’d like.”

Merrill glanced back towards the small, black bags. “Oh, those aren’t filled with coin. Mythal has no use for gold, I shouldn’t think. But it’s tradition among the People to make small carvings. Little wooden things, animals and such, and dedicate them to the Creators.”

Hawke shrugged. “And I suppose that we really don’t have time to dawdle on the mountainside crafting figurines. Perhaps on the way back, then.” Merrill nodded and they began to descend down the slope, drawing ever closer towards the areas where the Veil was stretched most thin.

Rough brambles lined the path and the trail tilted perilously towards the edge of the cliff such that a single misstep might have led to a bloody end for an inattentive traveller. Hawke was still reticent to lead their party up the slope, as her mind was still admittedly not at the peak of its attentiveness. As they edged along the rocky mountainside with slow, careful steps, Aveline led them forward. Their progress was slow but efficient and, though Hawke was never one to be frightened of heights, she was pleased when they approached a wide, flat plane of ground. As the others stretched, readying for the final ascent, Hawke repeatedly flicked the bruised nail of middle finger against her thumb until it stung. She lifted her hand, studying the nail, looking for the small puncture wounds. They were hidden beneath the pooled blood that she hadn’t thought to wash away. Clearing her throat, Hawke let her hand fall to her side, looking back to the path ahead.

In the distance, against the gray of the stone path that lifted up towards the peak of the mountain, there was the merest hint of movement. Something almost as vague and undetectable as the trembling of trees but somehow with a feeling that was more sinister. “Did you see that?” muttered Hawke, glancing towards Varric who moved along at her side.

They stopped, eyes gazing forward along the road as the indistinct motion became more apparent. A corpse, alone and unguarded by other animated bodies, was lurching down the path towards them. The speed with which it moved was unlike that which Hawke was accustomed to seeing and, grasping her staff with white-knuckled fingers, she readied herself for battle. It was without much trepidation that she sent the first waves of magic towards the lumbering creature that came for them; after all, it was but one solitary being and a single sword, clutched within its bony, decaying hand. It was only when the creature seemed unaffected by the first throttling crunch of stone against its wasted body that Hawke’s eyes widened and it dawned on her that they may be in for a more strenuous fight than she had expected on initial inspection.

The resilience of the skeleton was astounding. Though he was hurled back by the sudden weight of Aveline’s shield breaking fiercely down on his ribcage, he rose once more, swinging out with his weapon and its point breaking through the sturdy metal of Aveline’s armour. The guard-captain called out with the sudden burst of pain and, simultaneously moving in defense of their comrade, Hawke and Merrill both hit the skeleton with their attacks. The lurching, disjointed movements of his ghastly body were halted for a moment as the lower half of his body became locked down by heaping stone and the arm that swung out with his sword was frozen within a glittering block of ice that had swept up beside him, surrounding half of his body. Varric’s arrow made contact with the mass of ice, breaking through the frozen encasement and slicing neatly through one of the bones of the corpse’s forearm.

The skeleton cried out with a barbaric roar that seemed to reach straight down to Hawke’s core, but she smiled nonetheless, seeing victory over the creature just on the horizon. This surge of triumph, however, proved to have come too soon. The roar of pain and desperate agony seemed to have awoken something else within the heights of Sundermount. There was crashing amongst the trees alongside the path and motion once more amongst the stone. Hawke’s attention had been drawn to the combat at hand, but now, hearing the motion up the trail and feeling the great surging of foreign magic bursting into life not far from where she stood, her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the point where fresh foes came abruptly into her line of sight.

Their forms, glinting with the metallic sheen of their armour even in the dim light of the overcast afternoon, loomed enormous and powerful against the gray horizon. “Revenants,” hissed Hawke, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the beasts that lifted their swords into the air. Her blood was hot from combat, her attention focusing and centering on the task at hand. Her experience with these creatures was limited and yet even that limited experience had given her the wisdom to dread their attacks. Their assault would begin soon, descending suddenly and brutally, and Hawke had no wish to be troubled with the formidable skeleton while contending with the two towering foes that would next draw them into a new and more hazardous battle. Turning back to her allies, she shouted savagely, “End him!” They closed in around the skeleton now and, with desperate attacks, finally brought him to the ground just as the powerful, sucking force of the Revenants’ magic yanked them from where they stood and dragged them over the ground until they were limp and helpless at the feet of their new opponents.

The pull of the magic moved their bodies swiftly but painfully. Rocks collided with Hawke, bashing against her body as she was jerked across the ground. Dust rose from amongst the stones, filling her nose, mouth, and eyes as she struggled to fight the irresistible pull of the Revenants. When she fell still at their feet, Hawke gasped, rising to her feet and rushing away just in time to avoid the razor edge of a sword that came sweeping for her throat.

She and Merrill fell back, both rushing breathlessly away from the focus of the Revenants’ ire. Varric ran up further up the hillside, firing off arrows with the same desperation that the mages hurled their spells. Aveline, as she so often seemed to be, was caught in the center of the most concentrated assaults. Her movements were swift and she dodged with agility and speed, but sweat poured down her forehead, running into her eyes and stinging as she tried to inflict some measurable amount of damage on the creatures that relentlessly continued their attacks. Though the Revenants were outnumbered, it was clear to Hawke that she and her allies were more than outmatched.

In spite of their best coordinated efforts, there was little that they could do to slow the attack. Aveline was tiring, the ceaseless barrage of assaults taking its toll on her in spite of the intermittent streams of Hawke’s healing magic that came shimmering through the air and washing away the aches and searing pains of injury. Aveline was strong and practiced in battle, but she was unaccustomed to the beating that two such formidable, inhuman foes could deliver. The others were helping, creating a constant dance of ever-changing spells and hexes that danced over the massive bodies that bore down on Aveline. The air crackled with the sound of lightning as Hawke sent in white beams of electric energy, the air burned acerbically as Merrill drenched the area in a cloud of entropic mist, but the Revenants battled on with their swords held high, crashing down against Aveline’s armour until she was compelled to break free from them and rush desperately down the hillside Hawke. “Hawke!” she cried out, her voice hard but still colored with fear. “I need healing!”

Hawke was depleted. She felt herself weakening as one of the Revenants trailed after Aveline and the other stood above, its cold, inhuman gaze fixed upon its prey. Gasping, her limbs shaking furiously as if she had just run for miles, Hawke closed her eyes and threw the last of her energy into healing Aveline. Hawke felt herself light-headed now, salt water welling at the corners of her eyes and joining the sweat that was beading on her face. Aveline turned back towards the Revenant, her body numbed now to the worst of the pain and the lighter lacerations on her skin closing up. Lunging forward with tremendous force, Aveline slammed her body into her opponent, driving her sword deep through his torso so that the tip burst out through his spine. He sucked in air hollowly, lurching and emanating the horrid, grating cry that tore from him as he fell forward on Aveline’s sword and crumbled to the ground. Even as he fell, however, none among his killers felt victory; the other Revenant was up the slope and bearing down on Varric.

Varric was making his best attempt to run from the Revenant, but there was no amount of running that could protect him from the powerful dragging force of the creature’s magic. Once more, Varric was pulled from where he stood, Bianca falling aside as he was yanked through the air by the Revenant’s power. The force pulled Varric as if he were a doll and slammed his helpless body directly into the waiting point of the creature’s sword.

There was a fountain of blood then, as Varric gasped with speechless pain. Hawke heard herself cry out and felt herself running up the slope with Aveline charging alongside her. Aveline, accustomed to running and accustomed to using her own body as a battering ram, reached the Revenant before Hawke was able to reach where Varric had fallen, bloodied and motionless, to the ground. While Aveline occupied the foe, drawing his sword away from Varric, Hawke seized the dwarf and, clasping his body awkwardly in her arms, began to struggle to pull him away to safety. From below, Merrill, who had not hurtled herself into proximity with the Revenant’s vicious assaults, sent forth a vivid flash of magic that seemed to wind around the head of the wretched creature, seeping into its consciousness and making it bow its head, clutching wildly at its eyes and ears as it tried to block out the horrible images and sounds that Merrill’s spell thrust upon it. It was incapacitated, unable to attack while its senses were overwhelmed with a horror of Merrill’s creating. Hawke had knelt to the ground, cradling Varric, but Aveline was in a prime position to spring forward at the Revenant, robbing it at last of its facsimile of life.

The sounds of combat faded from the clearing, but silence did not fall over the group. Aveline was gasping, clutching at a stich in her side and bowing over at the waist as she tried to breathe through the pain and exhaustion of battle. She came staggering over to Hawke, who was fishing through the satchel that hung at her hip in search of one of the lyrium potions that she had brought with her. Hawke was never particularly fond of drinking the iridescent, blue potions. Lyrium left her feeling euphoric, almost manic, after she consumed it, and the threat of addiction had always worried her. She’d witnessed the dark, purpling circles that developed beneath the eyes of Templars and mages who had spent too many years recklessly using the stuff; she’d seen them scratching at their skin as they craved a fresh dose. She’d felt that edginess—that sleepless, wild, craving—herself after a year being provided with all the lyrium she could want by the smuggler that she and Carver had worked for during their first year in Kirkwall; Athenril had provided her mages with what they needed to carry out her business. Since that time, Hawke had done her best to avoid the substance unless it was utterly and absolutely necessary. Now, however, with Varric bleeding heavily in her lap, Hawke knew that she needed to restore herself.

The effect was instantaneous. She felt the muscles of her irises drawing back as her pupils widened; she felt the rush over her skin as the light hair on her arms and the nape of her neck rose. Sighing, she felt the relief as her body seemed to flood with the magic of which she had been drained. She poured the restored power into Varric, her hands glowing as the shimmering light passed from her body into his wounds. With her eyes closed and her focus turning entirely to the injury in Varric’s side, she could feel the wound almost as if she were exploring it with delicate instruments. She could feel that his kidneys were still intact, which was a mercy. The blood loss was great even though his kidneys had not been punctured; Hawke could feel the severed arteries constricting, drawing back in the wound. With telekinesis, she drew the pieces of sundered flesh together, joining everything that had been torn apart, and sent wave after wave of gentle, healing energy through Varric’s body. Hawke was aware of his health restoring, his breath returning to normal, as he began to shift in the circle of her arms. Letting her magic ease off gently, Hawke opened her eyes, blinking as the light invaded her sharply dilated pupils. Turning her eyes down towards Varric, she saw that he was smiling faintly at her.

“You’re getting better at this, Hawke,” commented Varric, his voice still a bit weak though the color was beginning to return to his ashen cheeks. “There was a time when you couldn’t heal a paper cut.”

Hawke smiled down at him. “Well, I’ve been practicing,” she shrugged. She continued attending to Varric, checking him for signs of any lingering fragility. It would have made her father proud, she thought, to see her like this. When he was alive, her father had always said that she was like a force of nature tearing through the countryside. He’d tried, so many times and in so many ways, to coach her into being a healer and a protector. She’d never seen the appeal of it before; healing was not half so exciting or exhilarating as leaving a tree burnt to a crisp or making a visible impression on the terrain around her. But she’d begun, of late, to see the appeal in it. To see the appeal of repairing all the wounds and all the tears. The appeal of restoring broken things. Of putting things back the way they ought to be.

When she was convinced that Varric was well, Hawke rose from the ground and helped him up with her. “We can rest here for a while, if you’d like,” she told him.

Varric glanced around at the fallen bodies of the Revenants. “I think I’d like to clear out of this place,” he said slowly. “As lovely as the corpse-strewn terrain is.”

Hawke nodded, dusting off her robes with quick flicks of her hands. “Alright then. But let us know if anything hurts. I may have gotten better at this whole healing thing, but I still have a ways to go before I’m anywhere near the same level as Anders.”

“You got it, Hawke,” Varric replied with a curt nod. It was he who first began to lead them further up the slope. The others followed after slowly, all of them feeling haggard after the fight.

They hadn’t walked long before it was clear that Varric was having trouble with the effort that the hike was taking. Hawke asked if he was sure he didn’t want to stop, but Varric only shook his head and insisted that he was fine. Speaking a bit breathlessly, he grumbled, “Who thought putting a demon in a cave on Sundermount was a good idea in the first place?”

“Well, where would you have put them?” countered Merrill, hopping lithely over a rock that looked awfully slimy with moss and other growth.

Varric had his hand on his side, seeming to offer support and pressure to the recently mended wound. “Tevinter, maybe. Or in the Anderfels. Further away from Kirkwall, that’s for sure.” Rubbing lightly at his side, he added through gritted teeth, “Somewhere where we wouldn’t have to hike up a vertical slope to get to it.”

“We can stop,” interjected Hawke. “You lost a decent amount of blood and if you pass out in the middle of a fight, then it won’t do any of us any good.”

Once more, he objected to the coddling. Rolling her eyes, Hawke made sure that she stayed close to Varric’s side and they approached the cave where Merrill told them that they would find the demon she’d heard calling to her all those years ago. The war that had been waged in these mountains had created an echoing devastation that had torn through the Veil and left it thin and penetrable even though many generations had passed since then. Merrill warned them of this as they drew closer to the slight dip in the terrain that eased towards the dark mouth of the cave. Within moments, the evidence of the worn Veil burst from the earth.

It was nothing, really—not when compared to the vicious attacks of the Revenants and the skeleton that had hobbled down the slope in front of them—but it was enough to drastically enhance the air of foreboding as they arrived. From the soil, sprang a small contingent of corpses with the dark form of a shadow assassin darting among their numbers. Fighting back the corpses while Aveline and Merrill dealt with the assassin, Hawke stood unwaveringly at Varric’s side, keeping a careful watch on his movements as they sent their attackers reeling. He seemed, she noticed, to be well enough, if a little bit slower than usual. If any trouble were to arise with the demon within the cave, then there was a very decent chance that his health would not be of a detriment to him. This was reassuring and, even as a number of shades rose up to offer further aid to the shadow assassin, Hawke was confident that Varric would be able to handle whatever lay ahead of them.

When their attackers had fallen, Aveline turned back to face Hawke and the others, wiping the blood and gore off her sword with the deeply stained cloth that she carried with her for this purpose. “Shall we?” she asked gravely, indicating the cave entrance with a tilt of her head. Hawke nodded when Aveline’s eyes went to hers.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Merrill said, shifting nervously in spite of the confidence of her words. “Nothing will go wrong.”

Hawke eyed her companions carefully, searching them for any signs of injury or weariness that could slow them down. “Alright,” she said at last. “Let’s end this.”

It was different from the underground passage that led through Sundermount and even different from the caves that could be found along the Wounded Coast. There was, in the dry air, the sense that this area had been heavily penetrated by a great and foul magic. The long presence of the demon had seeped into the very air that they breathed and, as they walked down a short flight of stairs into the open, arching darkness, Hawke felt a chill running up her spine.

Across the broken flagstones that were scattered across the floor of the cave and amongst the ruins of what had once been a temple, there was a tremendous statue placed beneath an arch of stone.

“Andraste’s ass,” breathed Varric, letting out a low whistle of awe. Hawke drew closer to the pedestal on which the statue was placed; her eyes were fixed on it as the residual magic that clung to it seemed to respond to the magic within her own body. It had the rustic appearance of one of the idols dedicated to the old gods. Six limbs, she saw, sprouted from the heft of its body, and its face had the appearance almost of a primate. Hawke wondered passingly if the statue was a representation of the demon’s own form, or if it was meant to represent a protector who locked the demon away from the world.

“Something is wrong,” said Merrill, coming up beside Hawke and furrowing her brow with confusion and stifled alarm. “This was where the spirit was bound. But now, it feels… empty.”

Hawke turned, her own brow knitting with a concern that she didn’t trouble herself to conceal. “So… the demon’s found some way to free itself? It’s just… roaming about in the world?”

Merrill shook her head, lifting one of her hands and running it anxiously back through her hair. “It would have taken powerful magic to break him free of this prison. You couldn’t just set him loose! Nobody could.” She was pacing around the idol now, inspecting it for some sign of what had passed. “Not without doing something terrible.” Merrill walked back from the statue, drawing towards Hawke and shaking her head gravely. “This is very wrong,” she said, her voice trembling with concern. “He shouldn’t have been able to leave! What happened to him?” She was panicked and, with each passing word, her voice and expression revealed more what she felt.

“I happened.”

Merrill’s eyes turned from Hawke to the lone figure that had suddenly appeared at the rear of the cave, descending the stairs that they had passed down only moments before. Marethari’s face was grim as she drew near them, her eyes dark.

“Keeper,” began Merrill, her voice filled with trepidation as the words came slowly to her lips, “what have you done?”

Even before the Keeper began to speak, they all felt the sense of mounting dread. “The demon’s plan was always for you to complete the mirror. It would have been a doorway out of this prison and into our world. You would have been his first victim.” She bowed her head as she added, her voice quiet and calm, “I couldn’t let that happen, da’len.”

Merrill was drawn forward towards the Keeper, her legs shaking and her eyes wide as the color drained from her cheeks. “Keeper? What have you done?” she repeated, her tremulous tone little more than a whisper as she stood before Marethari.

The Keeper turned, concealing entirely from them anything that her veiled eyes might have revealed in those hushed moments. “I couldn’t fight it in the Fade while it was trapped,” she revealed, her impassive veneer almost shedding as a trace of sorrow crept into her voice. “And I couldn’t banish it without making it stronger. So I made myself its prison.” As Marethari spoke, Hawke watched Merrill. She watched as the dawning comprehension spread across Merrill’s face, watched as the knowledge of what her mentor had done entered those innocent eyes. Hawke watched as the innocence shattered and fell away. “Kill me,” said Marethari, “and it dies too.” She turned back to them, her face set with strength and determination. Hawke stared at the Keeper’s expression, filled with awe, trying to understand what well of strength made such self-sacrifice possible; Merrill hid her face behind her hands.

Merrill protested, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to manage her distress. “You can’t ask….” Merrill shook more violently, fighting back a sob of sadness or anger or both. “I won’t do this!”

The Keeper looked at Merrill with a sorrow that Hawke knew was a farewell. “You always knew your blood magic had a price, da’len. I have chosen to pay it for you.” A white, bluish light was already beginning to consume the Keeper’s body as she whispered, “Dareth shiral.”

The blue light expanded, growing and expanding to fill the entire cave as the Keeper’s diminutive elven frame broke and warped before their eyes, the limbs contorting and the skin shifting as the demon trapped within her body began to make itself known. It rose up before them, its body draped in the same glow that had suffused Marethari’s skin. 

Pride. Hawke knew it at once, having had encounters with incarnations with this breed of demon a handful of times in her life. It was not only their cleverness and the allure of their coaxing words that made these demons so formidable, but also their tremendous frames. It loomed above Merrill, its form monstrous and deformed with a wretched, horned head that was punctuated with small, darting eyes which flashed even in the darkness and seemed always to see down to most guarded secrets.

“Merrill, move!” screamed Hawke when her own senses had recovered from the shock of the transformation. Merrill was standing, aghast and horrified, as she looked up at the demon. “Merrill!” cried Hawke again, darting forward and, grabbing harshly onto the stunned elf’s wrist, dragging her back towards the idol that the demon had left vacant. The chamber of the caves shook with the laughter of the demon as it watched them flee.

The heavy tread of the demon continued to shake the ground as it thudded towards them, its fanged mouth still wide with laughter as they wheeled around and tried to drive it back. Hawke attempted to bring it to ground, summoning tremendous force that slammed onto the hard protrusions of the demon’s shoulders and over its head. The demon did not falter or stumble below the weight of her magic, but it was shaken somewhat by the joint attacks of Varric and Aveline which made its physical form, new to the world, weaken under fresh pain. The snarling threat that the creature posed roused Merrill after her initial shock and she sent a hard cluster of rock soaring for the demon’s head, pounding into its flashing constellation of eyes.

“Traitor!” The call sounded suddenly, echoing through the cavern with a voice that was deafening and yet somehow focused as though someone had whispered it into Hawke’s ears. She felt her heart thundering with a speed that was almost impossible as she looked for the voice that called to her. No. Not to her. To Merrill. “May the Dread Wolf hunt you for the rest of your days!” The voice came, Hawke saw, from a ghostly manifestation of a Dalish hunter, though she hardly knew who he had been. Its calls echoed in her ears as she raced to the corner of the cave where it stood She banished it quickly, ending its terrible cries, but more appeared around the perimeter of the cavern, howling their condemnations of Merrill’s sin. Hawke turned to the others, but she saw that Merrill had already turned her attention from the demon to the ghosts that insistently reminded her of all she had done. Hawke left them to Merrill; they were her ghosts to defeat.

Hawke gritted her teeth, running close enough to the demon so that it would feel the full force of her attacks. And it did feel her. Its body searing and dancing with her lightning, the beast laughed and turned towards her with its gaping mouth somehow contorted to look like a grin. Its many eyes fixed on her. “Ah, the one they call Champion! Risen from nothing and seated on a throne of hubris and conceit,” it snarled at her merrily, lifting its clawlike hands and letting them well with a magic that gushed and flowed like a swirling mass of coagulated blood and flesh. “You’ve fed me well, mage.” It hurled the red mass between it claws towards Hawke and, breathless, she flung herself to the side.

She landed roughly on the ground, one of her ribs slamming violently against a rock and her breath knocked from her as another stone rammed into her sternum. Gasping for air, she forced herself to her feet, fleeing the demon that now turned the brunt of its fury towards her. Fire rose around its feet, flaring out and lapping towards Hawke’s feet and she ran forward, panting and clutching at the rib that had fractured when she’d landed. The flames that the demon generated caught at the hem of Hawke’s robes and the heat begin to sear her legs. Ignoring the pain, she sent a burst of cold that extinguished the flame. Her staff was still clutched in her hand and, when she wheeled around to face the demon, Hawke brought down another powerful force from above. This time, weakened as it was, her magic slowed it, causing it to slow as it fought to remain upright.

Aveline swept forward, severing the tendons at the back of the creature’s ankle and leaving one of its feet dangling oddly from its leg. It roared at this, mouth wide and open and all too vulnerable to one of Varric’s arrows. Varric took aim and the point of the arrow pierced the top of the demon’s mouth even as Merrill struck the beast with a hex that left it bleeding steadily and profusely. Hawke watched as the creature flailed; she watched as its eyes flashed and, in them, she saw its battle for life.

As suddenly as the demon had risen, it fell away once more. The massive, spiny form before them burst into a nebulous blue light and, when that brilliant mist parted, Hawke saw the familiar, delicate figure of Keeper Marethari kneeling on the ground with an expression of dazed wonderment on her face. Merrill rushed forward, one of her small hands slightly outstretched towards the Keeper and she came to her. “Keeper?” she breathed, dazed as she made her approach.

Shaking slightly, the figure rose from the ground. “You’ve beaten it, da’len,” said the Keeper, smiling at Merrill with beneficent relief. “You are so much stronger than I imagined. The demon is dead.”

Merrill drew close to the Keeper, but Hawke called after her. “Merrill, wait. I… I don’t think that it’s over. Marethari said… she said the demon was bound to her.” Hawke’s voice cracked as she spoke, holding her hand out to Merrill to draw her back towards the group. But Merrill bowed her head, walking forward until she stood before Marethari. A smile flickered across the Keeper’s face, but Merrill did not return her smile. “Ir abelas, Keeper,” she whispered, her voice low and heavy. Before another word could pass between them, she thrust the knife she’d drawn into the Keeper’s torso. The wash of blood spilled over Merrill’s hands as she drove the point deep into the possessed body and finally broke the demon’s hold on reality. The Keeper’s eyes were wide as she gasped those last breaths, collapsing backwards at last onto the ground and falling limply back onto the ground. Merrill stood, her knees locked and her shoulders shaking, as the blade tumbled from her hand and clattered to the ground beside the body of her mentor.

Lights danced as the demon left their world, but Merrill hardly seemed to notice. She fell on her knees beside the body and looked down at it helplessly. Her tears broke then, falling over her cheeks and dripping off her chin to land on Marethari’s clothes. It was quiet in the cave save for the sounds of Merrill’s tears and the murmured sounds of her pleading and her denials. Hawke heard the helpless words but, searching within herself, could think of nothing to say. Maybe there was nothing to say.

Merrill looked so small then, kneeling beside the woman who had died protecting her. Her shoulders shook violently with each gasping sob and, when she leaned forward, burying her face in Marethari’s clothing, the hands that clutched at the corpse trembled violently. “Why couldn’t she have believed in me?” Hawke heard Merrill gasp, her voice thick with tears.

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but closed her lips without having said a word. When Merrill looked up at them hopelessly, her face streaked with tears, Hawke met her eye. In that moment, the pity that Hawke felt for Merrill’s loss morphed into a pity of another kind. Hawke pitied the fracturing of innocence that comes with the true comprehension that time moves relentlessly onwards and that mistakes can never be unmade. The realization that there is no going back. Not only knowing this, but feeling it. Hawke watched Merrill’s eyes and she watched the innocence that was breaking within them, splintering into fissures that would never be mended. Hawke wished for a moment that she could put the pieces back together, but she was not naïve enough to believe that all wounds could be healed.

“I’m sorry, Merrill,” murmured Hawke at last. Maybe that was the only thing to say.

Merrill gulped back her tears and, shaking her head, rose from the ground. “I don’t know what to do now,” she managed to say. “I… I should go to the clan. Someone needs to know, needs to come… take care of her.” Her voice cracked as she spoke, breaking on the tears that still threatened to bring her down once more, but she still walked towards the exit. Uneasily, glancing between one another, Varric, Aveline, and Hawke followed after her.

It had been too much to hope for, Hawke supposed, that they would be allowed some peace after what had just occurred. It would have been too easy and too merciful if they have just been allowed to go down the slope towards the base and been able to arrange for the Keeper’s care and funeral. It happened instead that, the moment that Merrill lead them into the light of the mountainside, that they were greeted by a waiting group of Dalish hunters, none of whom looked particularly friendly. Rather, they were decidedly hostile, choosing the most inopportune time to inquire accusatorily after their beloved Keeper. Merrill bowed her head, breathless and stricken with the fresh grief, and tried to explain what had gone on in the cave. But before she could get the words out, one of the elves, a female that Hawke knew was called Ineria, shouted over Merrill’s hushed and stammered words. “Look at her, Fenarel! She’s covered in blood!”

Fenarel looked over Merrill’s bloodied clothes with searching, apprehensive eyes. “What have you done, Merrill?” he asked slowly, as if he dreaded the answer. He tore his eyes from her, turning towards the cave and walking hurriedly towards the yawning mouth. He shouted for the Keeper, but there was no one left within to answer him.

“She’s dead,” gasped Merrill, new tears breaking free of her eyes and blazing down her cheeks which were still damp from her recent fit of weeping. Hawke watched, feeling acutely how desperately Merrill wished that she could have taken Marethari’s place.

Ineria lunged forward, coming up beside Fenarel and snarling towards Merrill’s trembling figure. “I should have guessed you’d turn on her, you monster.”

Merrill shook, covering her face with her hand. Hawke watched the tears for a moment. Merrill was shaking, unable to speak, and the elves wanted retribution. “This was a tragedy, not a betrayal,” said Hawke suddenly, surprised at the sound of her own voice. Still, her expression was calm and resolute as she looked towards Ineria and Fenarel. “This blood magic will not harm anyone else, I’ll make sure of it. That… that’s all I can do.”

Her words did little to assuage Ineria’s anger, but Fenarel pulled her clanswoman back. “She was our First, once,” he said, almost with a resigned gentleness. “The Keeper loved her.” Then, glancing from Ineria to Merrill, he added, with some bitterness, “More than she loved the clan, it seems.”

Merrill’s apologies were wasted then. All contrition and all remorse could do nothing in the face of such anger and such loss. There was a moment—a long, aching stretch of time—when Hawke’s fingers were tight on her staff and she wondered if she and her companions would meet their end on a mountainside at the hands of enraged elves. It didn’t come to that, however, through some small mercy of the Maker. They were allowed to pass down to the foothills of the mountain without being skewered by any Dalish arrows. It was a long walk, silent and never free from the bitter pall that hung over them.

As they left Sundermount behind, the clouds above opened up and the thunderstorm that had threatened them all day finally began. The rain continued to fall continuously and heavily as they made their way back towards the city and, by the time they reached Lowtown, all of them were soaked to the bone.

Outside of The Hanged Man, where they were saying their goodbyes to Varric, Merrill walked on towards the Alienage without saying farewell or any other word. Hawke looked after her and then back to Varric, who was also staring after the diminishing figure. “I—I should go after her,” said Hawke waveringly.

“You sure, Hawke?” said Varric, smiling ruefully. “You’re a woman of many talents, but you’re not exactly the person I’d go to if I wanted to have a big, emotional chat.”

“I know,” said Hawke, shifting uncomfortably. “But I just… I just hate the idea of her sitting all alone right now. I just… I have to.”

Varric shook his head. “Alright, Hawke, but if you could stop by The Hanged Man after and let me know how Daisy’s doing, I’d like to know.”

Hawke nodded, looking from Varric to Aveline and then back again. “I’ll come back later,” she told him, waving her farewells to both, before running on after Merrill.

There are times when conversation and the right words can make all the difference in the world. Times when someone like Hawke would have been rendered entirely useless. But that evening, all that Merrill needed was company. Hawke may not have been skilled with words, but she had learnt a thing or two about grief. She had learnt more than she ever cared to know about loss and guilt and heartache. She was useful then, in the dilapidation of Merrill’s home, as the shattered pieces of the eluvian spread across the floor and Merrill blamed herself and everyone for the way things had gone. Hawke spoke few words, offered little in the way of condolences or commiseration, but she was there.

The sky was dark when Hawke left Merrill’s home but the rain had not decreased in the least. Blinking back the drops that fell into her eyes, Hawke bowed her head and, with her hair falling across her face, began to make her way towards The Hanged Man.

“So Daisy’s alright, then?” asked Varric, as she sat beside him in the corner of the tavern away from the chatter of the other patrons.

She nodded. “I don’t know if ‘alright’ is the word for it, but she’ll get there. She’s thinking about the future, so there’s that at least. I think that if you just keep getting to the next day, then it gets easier eventually.” Hawke lifted the glass stein she held to her lips and the clear liquid washed down her throat.

Varric smiled faintly. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience there, Hawke.”

She shook her head, leaning back into her chair and resting her head on the wall as she turned her eyes up towards the ceiling. “Not really. Merrill—she’ll be okay someday. One of these days, she’ll wake up and it will hurt less. She’ll forgive herself and she’ll move on.” Hawke flicked her eyes over towards Varric. “Now, be honest, Varric—do really think I should forgive myself?” She was smiling mirthlessly. His eyes trailed over her throat, exposed as it was as she tilted her head back against the wall.

He took another sip from his pint of ale, looking away from her. “Give it time, Hawke,” he murmured.

He heard her laugh under her breath, turning her gaze back towards the ceiling. “That’s optimistic,” she said placidly, her eyes tracking over the outline of a brown stain that had been expanding over the ceiling since her arrival in Kirkwall.

He sat with her, spoke to her on occasion and even lured her into playing a hand or two at the card table, but the blood loss of the day, as well as they excessive amount of hiking, had left him drained. When the hours began to grow especially large, he found that he had no choice but to go to his room and rest. She remained behind, however, slinking back towards the corner and, leaning once more back into the shadows, she watched the merriment that continued on around her.

She should have gone home. She knew that. She should have gone home and let Orana prepare her a warm meal and draw her a warm bath. Warm and clean and full of delicious food, she should have slid into her bed and gotten the rest that her body was calling out for. Even as she sat in The Hanged Man, the exhaustion was catching up with her; on occasion, she would find herself gasping, sitting suddenly upright and jerking out of a slumber that she hadn’t known she had lapsed into. A day of acting like she was alright and behaving as if she wasn’t breaking had robbed her of all her strength. But she couldn’t go back to her home. She couldn’t crawl back into her bed. Since Fenris had left, she hadn’t spent a single night in her own room. Orana had tried to talk her into it, offering kindly to wash the sheets, but Hawke had flown into a rage then and, smashing several rather valuable vases and giving the poor elf a terrible fright, she’d insisted that nothing in her room be touched or cleaned. So the sheets remained soiled and the clothes she’d worn remained strewn across the floor and she slept in the study for brief, flickering moments before surrendering to her insomnia and drifting from room to room of her mansion until dawn came.

With lack of proper rest and with no combat or mortal peril to focus her attention, Hawke only stared, watching as people drifted in and out of her line of sight. They laughed, she heard, and they spoke loudly about politics and faith and other things that failed to interest her, and they smiled. She watched in silence, almost invisible to them and to herself, when something suddenly blocked her view. Eyes focusing on the form that stood so close to her, Hawke’s gaze traveled up the black fabric of Anders’ robes until her eyes finally met with his. “Anders,” she said, sounding only a bit surprised. “You don’t drink.”

“Right you are in that,” he replied, seating himself in the chair that Varric had left vacant earlier in the evening. “But Aveline said you might be here and so here I find myself.” He cast an eye around the assembled drunkards and sighed heavily.

“Come to give me a talking to, then?” said Hawke resignedly, almost smiling.

He did not return her smile, but there was the merest twinkling of levity in his voice as he answered, “You know how I worry.” His eyes flickered over her. “So, I hear that you were fighting for Merrill’s cause today, defending her even in the face of angry Dalish archers.” One corner of his lips twitched into what could have almost been interpreted as a smile. “And here I was thinking that you were done playing the hero.”

Looking away from him, back at the contents of her glass, she sighed. “I am. A hero is a person who does good things because that’s what’s right. A hero is a person who can be saved.” She shook her head. “I’m not that person.”

“So, you’ve settled on playing the martyr then?” he said dryly.

“Call it whatever you want,” she replied, lifting the stein to her lips and sipping from it.

Anders watched the clear liquid sloshing with his brow furrowed. He glanced to her cheeks, which were not flushed with drink though it was clear that she had been there for hours. “Is that…water?” Anders asked, a bit taken aback and, in spite of the situation, almost amused. He’d never known Hawke to pass up a stiff drink when the opportunity presented itself.

Hawke looked back at him flatly. “I really can’t afford to dull my inhibitions. My judgment is questionable enough when I’m sober.” He stared at her; she almost sounded as if she were joking, but her eyes were hollow and her expression utterly free of emotion.

“Care to let me have a taste?” he asked, really just to have something to say more than out of any genuine thirst.

“Go for it,” she shrugged, holding out the stein to him. As he reached out, Anders happened to look passingly at her hands as he took the stein from her. His brow furrowed once more and his mouth quirked into a frown. “What happened to your hands?” he said, placing the water aside without drinking any of it.

Hawke brought her hand back towards herself, looking back to the bloody puncture marks beneath her fingernails. Earlier, she might have tucked her hands into the folds of her robes and lied or changed the topic, but now she laughed a little, flicking her fingers together to feel the bruises pulse again with pain. She was tired. Too tired and worn thin and sick of being alright to change the topic or to concoct some foolish story. “I was seeing how far I could stick needles underneath my fingernails before I had to scream.” Again, she let out a manic burst of laughter, before folding her arms so that her hands were hidden. She looked back at Anders, shrugging. “It hurt. Almost more than anywhere else.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Why?” he breathed, aghast.

Hawke looked away from him, turning instead to stare at her knees. “No reason,” she lied, rapidly growing increasingly tired of this line of the conversation. She regretted that sleep deprivation had made her honest. Perhaps she had really better get some sleep before she did something immeasurably stupid and destructive.

Though her eyes wandered from him, Anders still watched her. She’d always had this part of her, he had to admit. This little thread of perversity that took pleasure in pain. That part of her that drove her to choke him, bind him, hurt him in all the best possible places. But she’d never directed that violence in towards herself. “Is this about Fenris?” he asked quietly, forcing his voice to speak the name without half so much hatred as he felt. As it was, Hawke still cringed when she heard how bitterly Anders said the name.

“You don’t want to hear this,” she murmured, slouching forward in her chair. She felt like collapsing in entirely on herself and wasn’t sure whether it was Anders or exhaustion or the mention of Fenris’ name that suddenly made her feel as if she might actually crumble to the filthy floor of The Hanged Man if she didn’t get to a bed soon.

When she heard Anders speak again, he sounded almost angry. “This isn’t right, Hawke,” he told her sternly, shaking his head. “There are people who still depend on you. People who still need you to keep things together. This city keeps falling deeper under Meredith’s control and the mages here will need you when this comes to a head. Kirkwall will need you.”

“Kirkwall has me,” she retorted, sounding terribly weary. “I will be here. I will always be here, as I was today when my friend needed me. But that means that I have to keep trying to hold myself together in any way I can.” She turned her face to him slowly and he noticed just how dark the circles beneath her eyes had become. “I wish I were stronger and… and I will try to be.” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat before adding, “But it’s hard to live with myself, Anders. Every second is hard.”

It was quiet, even with the sounds of the increasingly raucous drunks, it felt quiet. “You never loved me like this, did you?” The words weren’t bitter. They weren’t even self-pitying or cold or critical. He’d looked into her eyes and he’d heard her voice and he was merely surprised by what he found. It was the surprise, the hint of confusion and awe, that was in his tone.

She opened her mouth but closed it without responding to the question to which they both already knew the answer. Standing, Hawke shook her head and, when her back was turned, she muttered, “I’m going home. I’ll see you soon, I expect.”

That night, not for the first time, she found herself standing outside her mother’s room with her hand on the doorknob. She had stood this way numerous times, almost opening the door and never quite being able to do it. The ghosts that haunted that room seemed only to be growing in number now and the actual thought of entering it seemed to be an insurmountable task. The metal of the knob was warming beneath her hand as she tried to will herself to finally turn the handle. She wanted to be somewhere where he had been—not her own room, not there—but somewhere where he had been contented. Somewhere where he had not hated her. She wanted to feel even the trace amount of his presence that might still linger in the air. Now, as the mansion surrounded her with the oppressive silence of its emptiness, she needed to be near some faint sign of him. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and finally flung the door open.

The room was still and every bit as quiet as every other room at this hour, but it seemed to have a peace to it that the rest of the home lacked. As she drew into the dark room with tentative steps, she found that the loneliness and guilt were not quite so heavy here. The portraits of her mother’s family looked down at her with soft eyes and the air was still and calm. Inching forward, she crawled slowly onto the bed, which was still unmade after Fenris had slept there. It smelled of him, she realized, as she buried her face in the pillows. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that he was there with her. Wrapping her arms around the pillow, her elbow came into contact with something hard. Lifting her head, she reached out and grasped the object. She recognized it at once as Fenris’ journal, which he must had tucked beneath his pillow.

She held it in her lap, staring at the cover, and sitting motionless for a long while. Without opening it, she knew what it held—his words, his thoughts, his cramped little writing. Shaking, she rested her hand on the cover, feeling the smooth leather beneath her fingertips. Skimming her fingertips across the edges of the pages, she felt how easily it would be to turn those pages, reading those words that he had left behind. But then, he hadn’t showed her those pages when she’d asked to see them. He’d smiled, his voice soft, and told her that he’d filled that journal with thoughts of her. The memory was enough. Just barely… but enough. Lying back, the journal clutched in her arms, Hawke fell soundly asleep for the first time since he’d left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Blargh, I am so sorry to have done something this long and this deviated from the Fen/Hawke storyline. But I have mentioned in previous chapters that Merrill is still involved with the eluvian and so I needed to tie up that loose end. 
> 
> B) I feel a little bad about having used so much of the dialogue from the game and so on. However, I couldn’t really see a way around it. I can justify changing dialogue and character behavior for people directly involved with Hawke when she went on her deviation-from-canon quest, but Marethari does not fall under that category nor do any of the other Dalish elves. I did my best to pad it with enough other stuff that it didn’t feel entirely like reliving the game. Which made it long. Also, I made the rather colossal mistake of trying to do almost all the little battles and stuff. Yeah… I won’t be doing that again. I’m sorry, I really am. I hope you just skimmed over them.


	29. Nemo Malus Felix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, spoilers from Best Served Cold in this one. This time around, I changed some of the dialogue and other incidental things. 
> 
> STILL NEEDS TO BE PROOFED... but you get the general idea.

The snowfall and showers of late winter seemed to be giving way to the intermittent days of blazing sunshine that heralded the coming of true spring. During the last several days, the veil of clouds that had taken it upon themselves to obscure the sun had finally parted, making way for rays of light to shine down and warm the earth. Hawke had observed this changing of the season with indifference, but with greater attention to detail than she had during previous years. She’d come, she found, to marking each day more carefully, for each day was its own unique struggle. The fairness of the weather did seem rather strange to her; it was so at odds with her mood that the contrast made everything seem almost surreal. Though she was no longer terribly deprived of sleep, the world and everything in it took on a dreamlike quality.

Even so, she recognized that the breeze coming through the open window was pleasant. In a different time, she might have enjoyed lying in bed while the warm, fresh air wafted in through the window and made the curtains heave with breath. Hawke lay in her mother’s room, still unable to face her own bed. The sheets, which were pulled over her head still, smelled faintly of Fenris and she breathed deeply, her eyes closed, as she felt the breeze drifting through the thin fabric. When she spent the nights here, and when she lingered in bed through most of the day, Hawke kept Fenris’ clothes heaped beside her, holding them tightly to her chest as if they were a child’s stuffed plaything. The clothing was clean and carried no trace of his scent, but it was his. That, coupled with the light smell of the sheets, was enough to provide some small measure of comfort that would have been unachievable otherwise.

That was the manner with which she spent her nights, which she did realize was only a very small improvement over wandering around the house like some sort of apparition. It seemed to bring some comfort to Orana, at least, that her mistress now spent time in a bed rather than lurching around with a vacant expression and weary, bloodshot eyes. Orana was still concerned, however, about the very great quantities of time that Hawke spent in bed, though she only make timid, polite efforts to get Hawke to rise at a more reasonable hour instead of remaining curled amongst a heap of bedding until well past noon. Sighing, Hawke lowered the sheets that covered her face and glanced towards the window to see how much of the day had worn away. When she had crawled into bed, the light had been yellow with afternoon sunshine. That light had faded and now the curtains were alight with the gray glow of evening. Hawke groaned, lifting her hands to her face and knowing that she would soon have to summon the will to crawl from bed.

That day, she had made the mistake of checking her mail and then made the still more grave error of allowing Varric to talk her into taking on some of the responsibilities that had been steadily piling up during her time in Tevinter. Since her return, she had largely ignored the heaps of parchment that were loaded on her desk. Within her, there was the sense that she was altogether unqualified to be performing the sorts of offices that were required of the Champion. Over the last several days, she had been spending an inordinate amount of time going over the history of the choices she had made, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when she had lost all sense of morality and basic decency. Though she discovered no origin point in her ruminations, it did become increasingly clear that, if there was to be an authority in Kirkwall, then it should most definitely not be her. In spite of her hesitation to get involved with the affairs of the city, Varric had assured her that it would be unlikely to cause catastrophic disaster if she were to address at least a few of the requests that had been sent her way. Though it was fairly clear to Hawke that he was encouraging her to go off adventuring so that he would have more fanciful material for his stories, or perhaps just to get her out of the house, she had nevertheless shuffled off to the Gallows and allowed the First Enchanter to blather on about Meredith’s madness and the suspicion that was now directed at all mages and especially him.

Hawke had almost allowed herself to forget about Meredith in the wake of Fenris’ departure. She had almost let herself forget about everything. She knew that this was exceedingly self-centered. All around her, there was suffering that far surpassed what she had ever experienced. Throughout the city, people suffered when they had done nothing to merit such misery. Meanwhile, the blame for her own turmoil rested squarely on her own shoulders. She had been blessed with freedoms and gifts that others lacked and yet wallowed in self-pity while others braved their fates with admirable resilience. Ultimately, it was the thought of this inequity, coupled with the thought of mages being condemned for sins that were not their own, that compelled Hawke to focus her attentions on Orsino while he spoke of Meredith’s increasing paranoia. There was, it seemed, a situation that had arisen amongst the mages within Kirkwall’s Circle. They’d begun disappearing at night, sneaking from their cells, and engaging in activities of which their First Enchanter could not claim knowledge. This was, Hawke recognized, a matter for some measure of concern. In her own experience, Meredith had always been a woman capable of seeing reason, but if these mages were engaging in blood magic, then it was altogether possible that the knight-commander would be driven to take drastic measures. Hawke had agreed to investigate what it was that the mages got up to during their nights free from the Gallows, but now, as the time for exploration drew nearer, she found herself flooded with trepidation. Though it seemed like a straightforward enough mission, getting involved with the increasingly tense political situation was not something relished doing.

Her reticence was further exacerbated by the fact that investigating the rogue mages also meant that she would have to leave the bed for an extended period of time. The mere thought of going off and roving the streets of Hightown at night was exhausting. For all the time that she spent horizontal and buried in blankets, Hawke was remarkably low on energy. But evening was quickly deepening into night, which meant that it would not be long before Varric, Aveline, and Merrill arrived. She had told them to meet her at her home at nightfall and, the longer that she lingered in her mother’s bed, the greater the possibility that they would come across her still huddled there with a mound of Fenris’ old clothes. Hawke was exquisitely aware of just how pathetic her behavior was and she had no desire to alert her companions to exactly how incapable she was of handling the fine mixture of her guilt and heartbreak. Their concern for her and the constant appraising glances had diminished somewhat since that horrid day on Sundermount, and Hawke did not want to give anyone fresh cause for concern. They had already invested enough of their time and energy in thinking about her and it seemed quite selfish to draw them in any further into her morose swamp of despair.

Groaning slightly, Hawke rose from the bed and shuffled over to a heap of her clothing that she had instructed Orana to bring to her so that she would not need to return to her own room. Hawke thought very little about which of her robes she ought to wear and dressed herself in a well-worn teal robe of which she had never been particularly fond. Everyday tasks, like dressing herself and fastening the buckles on her fur-lined leather boots, had become incredibly mechanical. It seemed ages ago that she had admired herself, taking pleasure in being beautiful and in arresting the attention of others. That seemed so infinitely hollow now; all who had seen her and found something to admire had never truly seen her at all.

When she was clothed, Hawke pulled her hair away from her face, swiftly weaving it into a sloppy, crooked braid that fell down just to the left of the center of her back. All the mirrors in her mother’s room had been turned towards the wall days ago, but when she guessed that she looked moderately acceptable, Hawke plodded slowly down the staircase and sat herself on the floor in front of the fire where she would wait for the others to arrive. Brutus, of course, was already lying luxuriantly in front of the crackling flames and, at the sound of his mistress’s arrival, he heaved himself up from where he lay and moved over to sit beside her. Hawke reached out reflexively, running her hand over his wiry fur and scratching at his ears while he made a low, rumbling sound of contentment. Though mabari’s were born war-dogs, Brutus had always proved to be a very sensitive beast and, over the past few days, he seemed to have dedicated himself to trying to comfort his mistress with frequent cuddlings.

When Brutus’ ears pricked up and he ran towards the door, Hawke knew that the time for relaxation had come to an end. Grudgingly, she rose to her feet and followed the excited dog to the front door, where she found her companions waiting for her. Hawke could tell from the blood on Aveline’s armour that they had come across one of the city’s numerous gangs on their way to her mansion. After thanking them for being prompt and checking to make sure that their trouble with the law-breakers had led to no serious injuries among their party, Hawke joined them in the streets and they began their short journey towards the square where Orsino had indicated the mages would be. It was Hawke’s rather fervent hope that, once she got to that location, she would be able to determine what the mages were up to before any drastic measures had to be taken. With any luck, the fact that she was a well-known apostate would lend her an air of trustworthiness with rebellious Circle mages.

There was, however, a complication that she had not even considered. The location Orsino had given them was situated among the Hightown estates, near the de Launcet’s manor. Getting there would require passing by the mansion where Fenris had lived for so many years. She realized this only as they were going through the Chantry Courtyard towards the stairs that lead to the opulent estates and the one ragged, dilapidated building that was nestled among them. All at once, she felt her stomach flip, her skin chilling suddenly in spite of the relative warmth of the evening. Consciously, Hawke began to concentrate on her breath in an effort to regain her composure. Two seconds on the inhale, two on the exhale. It did little to soothe her jangling nerves and, as she found herself at the base of the staircase, she discovered that her knees were wobbling so uncontrollably that it seemed a very real possibility that she would never be able to mount the stairs at all.

She knew it was ridiculous. That building was empty. He was gone and he would never come back. She wouldn’t see him there and she shouldn’t dread seeing a vacant building that he had never legally owned in the first place. She knew this and yet the idea of seeing his home—the place where he had always been when she wanted him—left her heart beating uncomfortably. He was gone, far off where she would never see him again or discover what had become of him. The house was a physical reminder of his absence and the thought of seeing its dark, empty windows caused her to feel a fresh resurgence of the agony that she had been trying to overcome. With a great deal of concentration, however, she was able to force her shaking legs to carry her up the stairs and into the courtyard around which a number of estates were situated. Though she forced herself not to turn her head, she was as aware of the mansion to her left as she would have been if she had stood directly on its threshold. Her legs finally ceased their wobbling, but seemed to have turned to marble instead, which was not the least bit helpful. The mere act of attempting to make her way further into the courtyard caused her to stumble with a truly remarkable lack of coordination. She stood still, no longer attempting to move while her limbs were being so uncooperative. Eyes focusing on the ground, Hawke took deep breaths and tried to regain some control over her legs.

“Hawke?” Merrill’s voice came gently as she sidled over to Hawke and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Though she did not ask what was the matter, it was clear from her soft, faintly worried tone that she guessed the source of Hawke’s discomfort.

Hawke shook her head, forcing herself to lumber off in approximately the right direction. “It’s nothing,” her murmured hastily. “It’s better that he’s not there. He’s better off away from me.”

 “Hawke…” began Merrill, trailing off gently as if she couldn’t think of the right thing to say.

“I’m fine,” muttered Hawke, saving Merrill the trouble of continuing. “Honestly, I am.” She kept her voice calm, not wanting to sound ungrateful for the concern but also desperately wanting it to come to an end. Fortunately, they were near enough now to where the mages were meant to be congregating that it was possible to hush the others without appearing to be overly rude.

As they made their final approach, Hawke and her companions moved with special caution. Aveline, whose armour made her tread particularly noisy in spite of all efforts to make it otherwise, hung back from the others slightly as they crept towards the arch that led to the proper location. Hawke, holding up her hand to signal to the others that they should halt their progress, slunk forward and peered around the corner as discreetly as she was able. She furrowed her brow with confusion with she saw the odd mingling of people that had gathered together. To her considerable surprise, she saw that there were not only mages in the square, but also a small host of Templars. Though it was not unusual to see these two groups paired—they were always roving the Gallows together—it was odd to see them engaged in what looked to be some form of relatively amicable congress. They spoke in soft voices that were impossible to hear and Hawke could not begin to guess what the topic of their surreptitious conversation might be.

Rather than attempting to garner information about the gathered mages through surreptitious means, Hawke decided it would be best to simply move forward as non-threateningly as she could and attempt to gather whatever information she could through straightforward conversation. Gesturing to her allies, they moved forward into the square and drew the attention of the odd coalition that was gathered there.

“The Champion!” gasped a flamboyantly dressed enchanter who had been speaking conspiratorially with a fair-haired Templar lieutenant .

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, intending to say that she meant no harm and only sought some basic answers, but she was interrupted as the Templar to whom the enchanter had been speaking leaned forward menacingly, raising his sword slightly as he shouted, “We know you’re spying for Orsino!”

It was difficult to counter this claim, given that there was a great deal of truth in it and, as the assembled Templars raised their swords, Hawke realized just how desperate these men were to keep their meetings private. Whatever the reason for this gathering of mages and Templars, they were all willing to protect their secret with their lives. Hawke’s fingers tightened around her staff, her muscles tensing as she readied for combat.

The moment that one of the mages lunged for her, Hawke lifted her staff and brought a large cluster of her attackers crashing to the ground as she slammed her magic down upon them. One of the mages called out, the bones of his lower arm and elbow having shattered by an awkward fall, but the fair-haired Templar seemed to be utilizing some of the techniques that he and his ilk had been taught to counter the attacks of mages. He raced for Hawke swiftly, striking out at her, but he was intercepted by Aveline, who had come darting out of the shadows and slammed her body into his with a very audible clang of metal against metal. Hawke fell back gratefully, keeping her back protected by the rear wall of the courtyard as she began to hurl spells towards the Circle mages who rushed behind the shield of Templars that swarmed forward to protect them.

The mages fell quickly, their thin robes offering little protection against the pointed assaults of Varric’s arrows and the focused attention of Hawke’s spells. The Templars, for all their bulky armour and their training with the Order, proved to be an inexperienced lot and all too susceptible to being overwhelmed by the spells that Merrill and Hawke sent their way. Only one among them, the fair-haired lieutenant, managed to withstand their assaults for long. What the Templars and mages lacked in skill, however, they made up for in sheer numbers. Hawke supposed that she and her companions must have arrived at the meeting somewhat early and had been greeted only by those who had arrived promptly. It wasn’t long, after several mages and Templars lay broken on the ground, before more of their kind began to arrive and, seeing the commotion, joined in the fight. They came streaming in from the archway close to where Hawke had positioned herself and, with Aveline occupied in a rather heated duel with the formidable lieutenant, Hawke found that she had to run, darting into a small recess of the courtyard and knocking back the interloping Templars with a burst of telekinetic energy that threw them to the ground.

Young Templars were always more of a nuisance than anything else and these days, as Meredith was recruiting for the Order with increased fervor, most among their numbers were without much practice in the field. Still, Hawke hated being cornered and was glad to be rid of her assailants as streams of her flames swept through the clustered group that drew near her. Clearly they had not yet learned that there was little safety in numbers while attempting to engage a mage; it was a lesson, Hawke supposed, that they would never have the opportunity to learn.

She had never hated Templars as Anders had, perhaps because she had never been trapped within a Circle and been subject to their control. Bethany had feared them and Anders hated them, but Hawke had always been more or less indifferent to members of the Order. They were humans, just like any others, and she took no joy in killing them. From what she has seen, they believed in what they did. Conviction was no excuse, perhaps, for the tyranny of the Circles, but she found it difficult to entirely condemn people who were driven by the strength of there own faith. Faith was something she lacked, something which she had long desired, and something which she envied when she found it in others. As Hawke looked at the seared corpses that lay at he feet, she wondered what faces their helmets hid. She wondered if she had seen them in the Gallows Courtyard and if they had exchanged passing words as she made her way towards Meredith’s office. She remembered the tired eyes of the knight-captain and the innocent blue-eyed stare of the boy Keran, who spoke so often of his sister and worked so hard to provide for her. There were good men in the Order, though she would never have said such a thing to Anders, and there were good men dying at her feet. Men who had come to Hightown that night to fight for a cause for which they were willing to die.

This did not occupy her mind long, but while she had allowed her thoughts to wander from the task at hand, a mage from somewhere across the courtyard had taken advantage of her inattention and hit her with a spell that left her disoriented and close to vomiting. She felt exhausted and her limbs shake and, as her vision finally began to come back into focus, Hawke knew that she now lacked the energy to cast. It was with a sheer thrill of panic that she saw a Templar racing towards her, his sword ready to strike her down.

Hawke dodged to the side, instinctively striking out with the heel of her staff and making contact with the Templar’s thigh. Though the blade of her staff punctured a hole in the Templar’s armour, it was scarcely enough to hold him back for more than a moment. He grunted with pain and then, the next moment, came bearing down on her again. The only thing to Hawke’s benefit now was that he was weighted down by his gear and she was relatively fleet of foot. She was able to dodge his assaults until she regained just enough mana to fry him to the core.

When the Templar fell, his heavy body and massive armour crashing against the paved ground loudly, Hawke glanced around the square for her next target, but saw no further threats. “Let’s hope that’s the last of them,” she groaned, rubbing at a cramp just under her ribcage. Then, furrowing her brow, she added, “One of them’s missing. Where’d that enchanter get off to? He was here when we came.”

“He must have run off,” observed Merrill. “I believe I might have heard one of his friends telling him to run off.”

Hawke sighed heavily. “Well, it’s no loss. I’m sure we’ll run into him again, knowing our luck.” She lifted her hand, wiping away a splatter of blood that had gotten on her cheek over the course of their skirmish. “Now, I suppose we should ask ourselves why a bunch of mages and Templars are sneaking off together for a midnight rendezvous.”

“Check the bodies,” suggested Aveline. “We might be able to find some clue as to what they were doing here.”

“Fair point,” grumbled Hawke, who was hardly looking forward to picking over bodies. “Let’s get this over with.”

As was always the case after a fight, the bodies left dead on the field varied greatly from one another. There were those that were riddled with arrows from Varric’s bow, those that were scorched beyond recognition by Hawke’s preferred spells, those who seemed to have been pulverized by Merrill’s blast of stone or prickled to death by entropic energy, and those who had been cleanly severed by Aveline’s sword. When searching bodies following combat, Hawke always preferred to search the ones that had been dealt with through physical rather than magical means. The deaths, though bloody, were typically less gruesome when a sword was the cause of death.

As she rifled through the possessions of the fallen, Hawke saw that the Templar lieutenant had been defeated when Aveline had taken off his head with what looked to be a clean, swift blow. Kneeling beside the body, with the head a few feet from her, Hawke began to pick over the templar’s remains. There was not much of interest until she came across a small slip of torn paper that had been tucked away on his person. Unfurling it, she scanned over the words. “I might have found something,” she announced, rising from the ground and offering the note to Varric as he approached with his hand outstretched. “They’ll be meeting at Gardibali’s Warehouse, it looks like.” Glancing around her companions, she sighed dejectedly and added, “There’s a chance that we should at least go down to the warehouse tonight to have a poke around. I get the sense from the note that these mages and Templars are all involved in some sort of conspiracy against Meredith. I’ve never cared two figs for the woman, but something like this would definitely give her cause to invoke the Right of Annulment, and I don’t especially want to see a ragtag group of rebels cost all the mages in the Circle their lives.” As she spoke, Hawke’s shoulders hunched forward. It would have been so nice if she could have just gone home after this fight instead of getting drawn into yet another imbroglio.

“Lead the way, Hawke,” said Varric, with a nod of agreement.

The air cooled somewhat as they made their way towards the docks. It was not a terribly long walk through the city and any gangs that there were between Hightown and the shoreline seemed to have the sense not to attack the blood-spattered band of travellers that made their way through the night. Behind her, Hawke could hear that the others were chattering quietly, speculating as to whether or not Meredith had truly gone mad with paranoia. It mattered little, as far as Hawke was concerned; mad people found themselves in positions of authority often enough and they continued to wield their power over others in much the same reckless, self-serving manner as sane people. Whether she was mad or perfectly sane, it made no difference—Meredith had power and it would take a war to make her surrender it.

Sighing, Hawke kicked a pebble and watched it clatter on ahead of her. “We’re getting close,” she murmured inanely, ignoring the fact the others knew the layout of the city just as well as she did.

“What’s the plan, Hawke?” inquired Aveline in a hushed voice.

Hawke shrugged, glancing over her shoulder at the others. “We don’t know much of what these people will be up to in there, but, if they’re anything like their friends in the square, then I expect we’ll have a fight on our hands. I’m afraid we don’t know enough to form a very definite plan of attack.” Looking forward again, she added, “Unless anyone has any ideas, of course. Maker knows I was never much of a planner myself.”

“Good enough for me, Hawke,” she heard Aveline reply. “We’ve got to find out what their planning somehow.”

Gardibali’s Warehouse was not an entirely foreign location to Hawke or the others. Through the years, there had been numerous lowlifes attempting to profit from the instability of Kirkwall and who had housed themselves in the seamiest areas of the city. The docks had always been a popular location for smugglers, simply because of convenience, but the criminal element had expanded over the years to include other breeds of questionable characters. Once or twice before, Hawke had needed to sweep through this very warehouse in order to clear out troublemakers. The familiarity of the location, however, did little to add certainty to the situation. Inside, there could be any number of people who might attack just as swiftly as the first group had. Even so, if she wished to discover precisely what it was that the mages and Templars were up to, she would have to risk yet another assault. She would, of course, attempt to speak with them first, but she had the nagging sense that this group was founded more on the premise that change was achieved through combat more than lengthy political discourse and level-headed conversation.

Immediately inside the entrance to the warehouse, Hawke saw that there was no one positioned to guard the doors. This suggested, much to her relief, that perhaps they were short of men on that particular night. She had no interest in prolonging this investigation if it was not necessary to do so.

There was no way to be particularly subtle as they drew deeper into the warehouse. The door from the entryway led out onto the second floor of the building which wrapped along the walls with a large opening at its center which looked over to the lower portion of the warehouse. The floor plan was quite open and the sound of the heavy wooden door opening on the upper level echoed throughout the building and was overheard on the main floor. “I told you she was hunting us!” Hawke heard someone shout as she made her way towards the staircase that connected the levels. Looking over the railing, she could see that the enchanter who had fled from them before had taken it upon himself to rush to the warehouse to warn his fellow conspirators that Hawke might be perusing them. The enchanter looked panicked as he lifted his eyes towards Hawke while she descended the staircase. Already, his staff was raised and she knew that he was not prepared to suffer interlopers on this occasion any more than he had been when she’s last come across him and his compatriots.

The Templar he was with this time did not have the imposing appearance of the lieutenant that Aveline had beheaded in the square. In fact, Hawke recognized the lad as he turned his gaze to her and his blue eyes widened. From the way he stared at her, she knew that Keran had not forgotten her either. “Keran, I…,” she began, but was cut off as the anxious young Templar turned back to the enchanter and shook his head.

“No, not her,” he protested. “I can’t do that.” Without further explanation, he rushed out of sight. Hawke called after him, recognizing that he was a potential source to give her further information about the conspiracy that was brewing against Meredith, but he did not return to her cries and she was soon too occupied to call out to him any longer.

At the enchanter’s summons, a hoard of Templars and mages burst forth, flooding across the floor and surging up the staircase towards Hawke. Acting immediately, Aveline ran forward, crashing down the stairs into the men. Not wishing to leave Aveline to contend with the advancing foes, Hawke followed hotly on the warrior’s heels and joined her on the lower level of the warehouse where the enchanter stood, calling forth waves of his own allies.

There was an ungodly din echoing through the warehouse as the battle raged on. The clash of swords, the crackle of lightning, the hiss of arrows speeding through the air—it all joined together, resounding within the cavernous room and thundering against Hawke’s eardrums. It wasn’t long before she began to lose track of her companions, unable to keep sight of them as she evaded the relentless assaults of the Templars as they closed in around her. If they reached her, she was all too aware that her fragile body would prove little match for their glinting weapons. Her one defense was her magic and, as each fallen enemy was almost instantaneously replaced by another, she could feel herself becoming exhausted.

It was with luck as much as skill that Hawke and her allies were finally able to cut through the ceaseless droves of their rivals. The cacophony in the warehouse began to die down at last when Hawke staggered forward from the rear of the warehouse towards the center of the main floor, where the enchanter’s mangled corpse was laid out. She was clutching at her side, putting pressure on a steadily bleeding wound. In the end, she had not been able to avoid the Templars forever and one of them, moving with impossible speed, had sliced deeply into her side as he emerged unseen behind her. The injury left her gasping, panting with pain, but she could tell that it was not fatal and, until she she’d ensured that none of the others had sustained more serious wounds, Hawke was reluctant to heal herself. As the others gravitated towards where she stood, Hawke pressed harder against the wound, gritting her teeth to keep from whimpering. “Is anyone hurt?” she managed to say, trying to sound as if her were not in any pain.

Varric’s eyes clicked to her blood-soaked robes and then back to her strained expressions. “Well, you are, by the looks of it,” he replied dryly, though his eyes held a trace of concern. “Now, I’m no expert, but a gushing stab wound might be something that needs to be healed.”

She smiled tightly. “Yes, that hadn’t exactly escaped my attention.” Glancing towards Aveline and then at Merrill, she added, “You’re both alright?” The moment that their health was confirmed, Hawke poured the last of her mana into healing herself. As the flesh mended together, she sighed with relief and her eyes fluttered closed.

Of course, the momentary relief of healing was disrupted by an agitated voice that sounded from the shadows. “I told them not to do it, I swear!” she heard Keran say and, reluctantly, Hawke opened her eyes to look at him as he came forward from where he had hid while the others fought for their lives. Her irritation with him in that moment was not small. This business with the confederation of mages and Templars was proving to be a more tangled matter than she had the patience to deal with at the moment. Still, she tried to keep her face calm and free from the annoyance she felt as he drew closer, still rattling on with a frantic edge to his voice. “If I knew you were the one they were talking abut, I’d have warmed you.” He shook his head, adding, “I don’t hold with kidnapping. Not after what I went through.”

Hawke was exhausted, her body still sore and her mind unprepared to deal with meandering conversation. Lifting her hand to her temple, she attempted to rub away the headache that had suddenly sprung up as Keran began to speak. “What?” she muttered, pinching her eyes shut and wishing, more than anything, that she hadn’t allowed herself to get mired in this situation.

Keran’s agitation seemed to grow with each moment that he was in her presence, and Hawke’s tense expression seemed to be doing little to keep him calm. “They said someone was spying,” he told her hurriedly, taking a step closer to her as she spoke. “We needed leverage someone they cared about. As a hostage.” Keran shook his head, clearly distressed as he added quietly, “We just got word that they found your elf—the white-haired one with all the markings—as he was coming through the city gates.”

Hawke felt suddenly winded, as if someone had punched her in the sternum and then plunged her into a tub filled with ice-cold water. Eyes wide and her heart thudding loudly in her ears, she tried to will herself to make sense of what Keran had just told her. What he said was impossible; Fenris was gone. “What?” she gasped at last, staring at Keran uncomprehendingly. “That—that’s impossible. He was… coming back to Kirkwall?” Her words were little more than a hoarse whisper and the effort involved in speaking at all was a tremendous strain. “Are you sure?” Her eyes were almost desperate as she looked to the young Templar, and this only served to make him more ill at ease.

“I—I don’t know, Champion,” he replied, shaking his head from side to side. “I’m sorry that one of your people got involved in this.”

Hawke bowed her head, covering her eyes with one of her hands as she fought to keep breathing. One of her people. He had been kidnapped, snatched from his life once more, all because he was _hers_. He had fled, trying to escape the vortex of destruction that surrounded her, but, once more, he was suffering the consequences of her actions. Her mere existence was a threat to him. “But he was gone,” she murmured helplessly. “He was safe from me.”

“Your friend should be fine,” he assured her, worried by her visible distress. “They were going to our base on the Wounded Coast. The ruins there. We weren’t going to hurt him… just make sure you left us alone.” Hawke stood, unresponsive, still hiding her face in her hand and shaking slightly. She said nothing and neither did her companions, but Keran went on, speaking with greater confidence as the conversation turned away from the kidnapping and towards the cause that he fought for. “Thrask says Meredith will cause open war with the mages if she stays in charge.”

“Stop talking,” whispered Hawke so quietly that he didn’t hear her.

“We have to take her down!” Keran continued, almost sound impassioned now, and his voice pounding in on Hawke’s ears as if he had been shouting directly into him. She wished he would stop. She wished that she could just have a moment to think. “You should help us, not fight us. All we want is someone sane in Meredith’s place.”

“And all I want is to drape myself in the intestines of Fenris’ captors,” she snapped suddenly, dropping her hand and meeting his gaze coldly. “Clearly we have different priorities,” she added with a snarl, her lips curling into a bitter smile. Hawke advanced on Keran slightly, taking a step forward before she felt the weight of Aveline’s hand pulling her back from him. The Templar was stumbling backwards, evidently frightened of her apparent rage. His terror was gratifying, but it wasn’t Keran that she wanted to destroy. It was not him who had brought pain into Fenris’ life at every turn. This was her fault, not Keran’s. When the boy asked her what she would do to him, she tried to hold back some of the venom in her tone. Even so, her voice was low and lethal as she hissed, “I can assure you, this will go very badly for your little friends. If I were you, I would run. Now.” He followed her advice, fleeing her presence as swiftly as he could.

Hawke could hear her own teeth chattering together as her body shook. Keran was gone when she finally said, her voice flat and devoid of the emotion she felt, “We have to go to the Wounded Coast.” She was already walking forward, not glancing back at the others, when she added, “Let’s go.” They followed after her without question or comment, but they did exchange looks of some trepidation as Hawke led them once more into the night.

The sun began to rise as they made their way towards the ruins where Keran had told them Fenris would be. The walk was long and Hawke was, throughout the whole of it, resolutely silent. Her heart was still racing and her blood still pulsed through her ears and, with ever step she took, she forced herself to remain calm. Keeping herself steady took such immense concentration that Hawke scarcely noticed a thing about her surroundings. Even through the coast was painted with morning light, Hawke was hardly conscious of the fact that day was nearing. She was hardly conscious of anything except for the fact that she was drawing steadily nearer to where Fenris was kept.

The thoughts that occupied her mind during their journey along the coast were torturous. She hadn’t anticipated this and there was no way that, when she had agreed to help Orsino, she could have foreseen that Fenris would somehow become a part of it. She had been feeling the crushing weight of his absence acutely for every day since he had left. Nightly, she saw him in her dreams, fleeing from her through the wilderness, alone and isolated, but safe from her at last. At yet, in spite of all she had known and all she had dreamt, he was again trapped in the dreadful wake of her actions. She hadn’t meant for this to happen, but the fact that she lived in the world at all had been enough to ensure that he was unable to break free of her. He had been returning to Kirkwall according to the information that Keran had given her. Fenris had been captured as he was coming back through the city walls. If they hadn’t seized him, she wondered what might have happened. She wondered if he would have returned to her. She wondered if he might have finally taken her heart into his hands, finishing what he had started while she was beneath him. The thought of it almost brought a smile to her lips as she picked up speed, ignoring the heavy panting of her companions as they followed her towards the ruins.

The conspirators offered only paltry resistance and Hawke began to move down the southern trail towards their base. A small contingent of mages and Templars were positioned not far from the trailhead, but they were easily overwhelmed. There is a fearlessness that accompanies desperation, and, as she fought, Hawke did so with a savagery and a dauntlessness that reflected the earnestness of her drive the reach their captive. She thought no longer about the men who were beneath the templars’ helmets and thought of them only as barriers standing between her and Fenris. Panting, standing amongst the bodies of her fallen opponents, Hawke turned to her companions with a grave and resolute expression. “Are you ready?” she asked, gesturing towards the dilapidated stone walls that lay ahead of them. There were general murmurs of consensus that brought a smile to Hawke’s face. “Good,” she grinned. “We’re going to destroy these bastards.”

The ruins lay just along the shore on an outcropping that was partially obscured from view by small dunes that rose up from the sand. Taking advantage of the undulations of the ground to conceal herself and her allies, Hawke began to creep towards the rebels’ base. Her heart was hammering so violently now that she thought it might actually burst through her ribs. Then, quite abruptly, she felt her heart plummet into the pit of her stomach.

Fenris was there, as Keran had said he would be, but he was not as she had expected him to be. She had expected him to be bound, perhaps gagged, perhaps beaten and bloody—but she had not expected him to be laying limply at the center of the ruins, his body seeming to be completely and utterly devoid of life. Hawke’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes widened, as she was drawn closer to him, stumbling into sight of his captors. Helplessly transfixed, searching his face for any sign of life, Hawke hardly cared that she was now in full view of a large number of the conspirators, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon her. Regardless of their stares, she would have torn towards Fenris had it not been for a mage that was suddenly stooping over Fenris and looking at Hawke with an expression that told her that, if she drew any closer, then the captive would die. Her stomach wrenching sickeningly, Hawke stopped abruptly. Lifting her eyes towards the kidnappers, she saw several faces that she recognized from the Gallows. Eyes narrowing, she thought what a mistake it had been to spare those mages from Starkhaven. As Thrask drew forward from the others, she bitterly wished that she had ruined him with the information she had about his daughter. She had shown him mercy once, but he should not expect the same treatment again.

Thrask was not far from her when he began to speak, with a bit of melancholy in his voice. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn’t have come here.” Hawke’s eyes narrowed to vicious slits. Yes—that had been a truly idiotic notion. It was unimaginable that she would have left Fenris in their clutches. Thrask and the others had known enough to know that he was precious to her, but they could not begin to comprehend the depths of the attachment. The fact that they had thought she wouldn’t slaughter them for this was a testament to their colossal underestimation of what she felt. Thrask even had the audacity to continue speaking, as if he believed that she was capable of listening to anything he had to say while Fenris’ body was still sprawled across the ground. “Though I can’t understand why you side with Meredith now. You showed me we can stand up to her. When I realized you have risked your life to protect those mages…. Please, Champion. I have nothing but respect for you. It’s Meredith we must see gone.” He spoke calmly, imploringly, as he entreated her to see the situation from his perspective.

“I don’t give a shit about mages or Meredith!” Hawke hissed bitterly. “I don’t want to hear another damn word about this political bullshit until I’ve seen that Fenris is alright!” Fenris looked so vulnerable then—his eyes closed, his body motionless, and a mage looming menacingly over his unconscious body. It ached to see him that way and to know that it was her actions that had brought this upon him.

Thrask seemed unfazed by her rage. “I will not harm the elf,” he assured her with infuriating composure. How loud would he scream, she wondered, if she jammed her thumbs into his eye sockets? “We will release him the moment I have your word that I will support us.”

“No!” cried one of the Starkhaven mages, stepping up alongside Thrask and glowering at him. “The elf dies,” she hissed bitterly. “Then the Champion.” The female mage’s eyes turned towards Hawke with deep hatred roiling within them. Hawke couldn’t guess what had brought on this anger, but she was certain that it didn’t matter. Hawke had spared these mages and they repaid her for her assistance with treachery. She should have killed them along with their leader, Decimus. Hawke’s lip curled into a snarl as she looked at the combative mage. Well, there was still time to remedy past mistakes. If this mage wanted a fight, then Hawke would give her one.

Thrask, however, seemed less eager to resort to combat. He stepped towards the mage, his face stern as he barked, “Stand down, Grace! We will not kill an innocent to achieve our ends. It gains us nothing to become Meredith.”

Grace rolled her eyes mockingly, hissing bitterly, “ _Meredith_! What do I care for Meredith? I’m here for the Champion.” Grace turned back towards Hawke, baring her teeth into a wolfish grin as she walked forwards. “Decimus was right,” Grace continued, her eyes alight with manic anger. “There is no way for a mage to live by the Chantry’s laws. You killed the best man I ever met. But I learned all her had to teach. Alain, kill the hostage!” She looked back towards the mage that hovered over Fenris, but Hawke saw that he looked uneasy now, shaking his head timidly as he looked towards Grace.

“I-I don’t know, Grace…,” stammered Alain, drawing away from Fenris’ body and continuing to shake his head nervously.

“Enough!” shouted Hawke, finding that she hadn’t the patience to listen to the boy’s moral vacillations and uncertainty. She met Grace’s eyes, her lips compressed into a tight line and her voice ominous and she growled, “Revive Fenris or I will destroy you.”

Thrask shouted his objections, trying to bring the situation and Grace back under his control, but  it was too late.

Alain cowered as the fight began, hiding himself behind a low wall of the ruins and only occasionally lifting his head to peek at the mayhem. It was all so very much like what had happened with Decimus, in those days when blood magic had seemed like the only path to freedom from the oppression of the Chantry. Decimus’ skin had lit with the same brilliant red glow that crackled over Grace’s flesh as she laughed wildly, summoning the power of a demon to fuel her magic. Alain watched, as stunned as the Champion and as Thrask, when Grace plunged the pointed tip of her staff deep within her torso, freeing a powerful stream of blood that danced around her body weightlessly. Her eyes glinted madly as she lifted Thrask into the air with her power, slamming him down so forcefully that the sound of his breaking neck echoed through the silent landscape.

Alain ducked down behind the ruins, covering his head and pinching his eyes shut, but he heard the Champion crying out, cursing viciously. Though he hid, trying vainly to block out the battle that raged just beyond him, Alain could feel the hum of magic. He felt it vibrating down into the core of himself as the apostates that fought under Grace rose up to fight the Champion. Grace’s magic was so strong that he would feel it more than the powers of almost any other mage who fought on the shore that morning. The blood and the demon would be fueling her, driving her forward relentlessly as all fear and all pain seeped away from her body. Yet, Grace’s was not the only magic that Alain felt overwhelmingly as he huddled closer to the ruins, pressing his arched spine against the cool stones. It was the Champion’s, her knew. It had to be. The air burned with her anger, vibration of her magic trembling through the air with uncontrolled frenzy. Pressing his hands over his ears, Alain still heard the screams of agony.

When he felt Grace’s magic fading, taken over be something darker, he knew what was happening to her. Compelled by curiosity and wonder, he removed his hands from his ears and opened his eyes, peering from the ruins towards the others. He had looked up just in time to watch as Grace’s body fell slack, lifting into the air as if a fisherman’s hook was lodged between her shoulder blades. Her skin was splitting, bubbling as if it were melting, as her limbs contorted, her back arching monstrously and transforming into a monstrous hump that looked like a tumor. It was an Abomination that fell back to the ground, robes torn during the transformation, and a monstrous cry tearing from its throat. The Champion was rushing forward, charging towards the creature and thrusting the blade on her staff into the Abomination’s throat, turning her blade while dark blood sprayed forward in a geyser. Alain ducked down behind the ruins once more, covering his ears and closing his eyes and waiting for it to be over.

The sand was wet with blood and the air was heavy with its scent when the battle finally ended and Hawke dropped her staff to the ground. A light breeze came over the ocean, adding the faint smell of salt water to the heavy stench of charred bodies and death. Her body hummed, countless lyrium potions bombarding her system. She was shaking, the hair on the nape of her neck prickling as the adrenaline in her body began to settle. From somewhere behind her, Hawke heard that the mage, Alain, was saying something to her, but she could barely heard him as she stumbled forward, collapsing on the ground beside Fenris. He was so still, seeming barely to be alive as she looked down at his vacant expression. It seemed so impossible that he was there and that he was alive that, for a horrible, breathless moment, she was certain that he was dead. With her hand trembling, she reached out and brushed her fingertips across his cheek. His skin was warm with life as her fingers grazed along his cheekbone and back towards his hair. Hawke brushed back the strands that had fallen across his face, watching as his eyelids fluttered as if he were lost in a dream. Even though she felt him beneath her hand, she could barely believe that he was real. “Will he be… alright?” she breathed, her voice quivering.

Alain answered her in spite of the fact that she hadn’t looked up at him while she spoke. “She—she used blood magic to hold him,” he told her quietly. “It’s the only means to wake him.”

Hawke heard the sound of his footsteps approaching over the sand and, glancing up at him, she caught sight of the knife that was lifted to his wrist, poised to cut. “Wait!” She held up a hand, stopping him before he could draw blood. “Wait,” she repeated softly, looking back down at Fenris and lightly running her shaking hands over his hair once more. “I… I shouldn’t be here.” Her voice was catching in her throat and she knew well enough that she was on the verge of tears. She cleared her throat, trying to speak loudly enough so that the others would hear her. “He shouldn’t have to see me. Not… not after everything.” His hair was so soft, his skin so warm. She would have given anything to have him look up at her, even if his eyes were full of loathing. With her fingers lightly brushing over his neck, she could fell the faint but steady beat of his heart. Hawke realized she was crying only when she caught sight of the first tear that dripped from her face onto his. Lifting her hand away from his pulse, she wiped away the wetness that had gathered on her cheeks. She reached down to him once more, but couldn’t bring herself to touch him then. Her hand hovered near enough to him that she could feel his warmth, but she didn’t allow herself to go any further. She had no right to touch him. Not after everything.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in a voice so low that no one could hear her. Her fingers drifted past his hair, almost stroking it. “I missed you.” She heard herself whimpering and sniffing wetly and lifted her hands to cup over her face. “I missed you so much.” Keeping her face hidden in her hands, her back arched forward, her head bowing so that it nearly rested on his torso. She could feel her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she tried to fight back the tears that streamed relentlessly down her cheeks and pooled in her hands. If she stayed—if she stayed until he woke, then she could see his eyes again. She could hear his voice. And it would be over soon—there was only one reason why he would have come back for her—but it would be worth it. But they had taken him at the city walls. They had taken him here against his will, putting him in her way once more. He shouldn’t have to see her if that wasn’t what he chose.

Still shaking, Hawke lowered her hands and rose from the ground. When she turned towards the others, her face was ruddy and blotched and her eyes shone with the water that still flowed from them. “If he—if he came back for me to….” She trailed off and, shaking her head, continued. “You know. Tell him I’ll be home. I’ll be home and I won’t lock the door.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, unable to look up and meet the pitying stares that were directed towards her. “Don’t… don’t try to talk him out of it.”

She kept her head lowered, not looking towards the others, and began to walk swiftly away from Fenris’ unconscious body. Hawke was passing by the others when she felt her departure halted by a hand locking around her wrist. Turning her eyes slightly to the side, she saw Varric looking up at her. “Hawke,” he said gravely, “it doesn’t end this way.”

“I don’t mind if it does,” she murmured. “Really. I want it this way.” Slowly, she pulled herself out of Varric’s grip. Almost smiling, she added, “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

There was nothing to say and, though he opened his mouth to speak, Hawke was already running from them, disappearing around a twist in the trail and vanishing entirely from sight. They watched her for as long as they could and, when she was gone, it was several long moments before anyone spoke.

“Should I…?” asked Alain uncertainly, lifting his dagger slightly to indicate what he was referring to.

“Do it,” said Aveline flatly, folding her harms over her chest and directing her gaze towards Fenris.

“No time quite like the present,” agreed Varric, rubbing his hand over the nape of his neck and managing to smile.

Merrill shifted, glancing towards the others and then towards Fenris. She said nothing, but bowed her head and looked at her toes while she wriggled them in the blood-stained sand.

The dagger flashed quickly across Alain’s wrist, flecking Fenris’ unconscious face with blood.

He woke, disoriented and spitting out the blood that had run into his mouth. His eyes took a moment to adjust, but, when he caught sight of the mage that stood beside him, Fenris snarled. “And yet more blood mages. What a truly remarkable surprise, ” he growled, wiping the last remnants of blood from his face and glaring coldly at Alain as if he were just moments from pulling the mage’s larynx from his throat. He might have done so immediately if his vision had not been going in an out of focus so rapidly, dividing the mage into two and then fusing him back together. Everything seemed to be spinning and he could make no sense of how he had come to be on this shore with the bodies of apostates strewn around him.

Aveline’s voice drew his attention suddenly, startling him as she said firmly, “He only used blood magic to revive you, Fenris. Calm down.”

Fenris hadn’t noticed them, but when he did, he found his heart racing, his eyes darting around in search of Hawke. She was nowhere to be seen. His lips curling sardonically, he spat, “Ah, and you. Hawke’s loyal band of followers. But where’s your fearless leader?” His eyes were cold as he looked at them, his voice almost mocking as he spoke.

No one answered, though they knew what they were meant to say.

It was Merrill who finally broke the silence, her voice soft and tremulous. “You aren’t… you’re not going to kill her are you?”

Fenris met her eyes bitterly, his lips almost contorted into a smile. “Perhaps,” he said darkly, the corners of his lips turning upwards still further.

Merrill looked over at Varric, her eyes wide. The dwarf sighed, turning to Fenris. “We’re not going to be accessories to her murder, elf,” said Varric, his voice low.

The threat of a smile vanished from Fenris’ face was he drew closer to them, his legs steadier now than they had been moments before. “Then I’ll find her myself," Fenris replied coolly, striding past them and vanishing down the trail.


	30. Odi et Amo

> _Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?_  
>  _Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior._  
>  -Catullus, Poem 85

She was moving quickly, plunging onwards through the thickening crowd as she entered the city. Fenris perceived her before he truly saw her; he found himself suddenly aware of her presence, knowing that she was near and yet not knowing where to turn his eyes. He caught sight of her suddenly, seeing a flash of her hair through a small gap in the crowd and knowing at once that it was her. She was far ahead of him, barely visible through the throng of pedestrians going about their afternoon chores. Fenris could only see her head bobbing through the crowd, her hair catching the light brilliantly whenever she came into his view for brief moments of time. He wove through the crowd, drawing closer to her until she came fully into view.

At first, he thought that she might turn and notice him, sensing his presence as he had sensed hers. It seemed, however, that she was not much aware of her surroundings then. Hanging back, watching from a sufficient distance, he saw that her head was hanging forward, her eyes fixed on the ground as she jostled through the crowd. She hardly seemed to notice when she collided with the others who milled through the streets. Her arms were wrapped around her body, her hands pulling the fabric of her robes tightly over her ribcage. The afternoon sun played across her jutting shoulder blades as she cut through the streets. Though he could only see her from behind and though her loose-fitting robes hid much of her figure, it was clear that she had grown thin, almost cadaverous. He wondered if she had been eating and it then occurred to him, after that first fleeting moment of concern, that it didn’t matter. She could waste away to nothing, for all he cared. But still, he found himself wondering intermittently about her health whenever he caught sight of her bones shifting beneath her clothes. It was always a passing concern, something he was almost unaware of as it entered his thoughts, but something that made him sick with himself the moment he became conscious of it.

She stopped walking suddenly and he felt a thrill of panic, wondering if she would turn and catch sight of him. This too sickened Fenris; there was no reason he should be anxious about speaking with her. He had nothing to be ashamed of and she was lower than vermin. Still, he felt his heartbeat quicken when he saw her head begin to turn back towards where he stood. But she did not turn fully around and instead looked through an archway that led off of the main road. Quickly, she darted through the arch and disappeared from his sight. Fenris rushed forward, afraid of losing her down a side street, and came up to where she had passed from view. The arch not lead onto another street, however, but rather into a small courtyard at the center of several rundown shops. When he saw her, he knew that he needn’t have feared losing track of her.

She was alone in the square and entirely unaware of Fenris as he came forward, leaning his shoulder against the stones of the archway and watching her with his head cocked slightly to the side. Hawke was unaware of anything then, having crumpled to the ground, sitting with her back against the wall across from where Fenris stood. She sat with her legs pulled to her chest and her head leaning against her knees while her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. Though she was clearly trying to stifle the sound, he could hear her gasping with tears. Her fingers grasped like claws against the cloth of her sleeves as she rocked back and forth, taking shuddering breaths and whispering words that he could barely make out. Leaning closer, he furrowed his brow and watched as she wept, still utterly aware of him though he stood only a few yards from where she huddled on the ground.

After a long moment, her murmuring increased enough in volume that he was able to hear what it was that she was saying. “Stop it,” he heard her whisper harshly, her fingers tightening on her upper arms as she spoke. “Stop crying, you stupid bitch.” She kept on murmuring to herself in between sobs and in between failed attempts to halt her weeping by holding her breath. Each short session of choking back her cries was followed by more violent weeping than before.

He wasn’t sure why she was crying and he was still less certain why she was continuing to curse at herself in a low, hissing voice. When they had been travelling together, he might have thought that she cried for him. But he had not known her then. He knew now that had been mistaken about her, and yet he had still been unable to resist returning to her city. The thought of her had called him back irresistibly. He’d been unable to bear the thought of her leading a life that he would know nothing about. She should not be allowed to move forward, forgetting about him and about what she had done, while he continued to be haunted by her throughout his life. He couldn’t allow that to happen. There was no justice in that.

There was no telling how long she would go on crying or how long she would remain unaware of him if he did not do something to alert her to his presence. Fenris remained where he stood, still leaning in the archway, and kept his expression as neutral as was possible. His voice was calm as he said, “You came for me again. Rescuing me from the clutches of still more mages.”

Hawke stilled, her shaking stopping the instant she heard his voice. For a moment, she was motionless, perhaps paralyzed by the shock of hearing his voice. He watched her, saying nothing further, as she lifted her head slowly and looked at him. Her eyes were wide, wet and bloodshot, though her tears looked to have been stemmed by her surprise. The episode of crying had left her cheeks blotched with pink and her nose was a vivid red, shining wetly around the nostrils. While she was staring at him, too stunned for words, Fenris noticed that she could no longer be considered beautiful. Aside from the matter of her blotchy complexion and running nose, she looked incredibly ill. Her face looked every bit as wasted and skeletal as her body and her hair, though pulled back in a braid, was clearly lank with accumulated oil. There was nothing beautiful about her. He knew this and yet he didn’t feel it. Looking at her, he could feel his breath coming shallowly and his heart beating faster. This reaction to her was, he felt sure, largely the result of anger, but he knew well enough that there was something else mingling with his hatred.

“You… you’re here,” she said at last in a voice that was barely audible. Her eyes were still fixed on him and, on her lips, there was something almost like a smile. It was odd to see such an expression while her cheeks were still wet with tears.

“I am,” he replied flatly. “Against all sense and reason.”

Hawke still looked dazed, her eyes still wide with shock while the corners of her mouth twitched up and down in an involuntary, convulsive smile. “You’re here,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Yes. As we have established already,” he said tartly, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the weight of her transfixed stare.

Hawke shook her head, seeming to come back to her senses somewhat as she lifted her hand to wipe it across her face. “Right. Of course,” she muttered, beginning to rise to her feet. Once she was upright, she staggered slightly and fell back against the wall, where she remained leaning as she looked back at him with a far more composed expression than she had worn moments earlier. The crooked, twitching smile was entirely gone now and she seemed almost in control of herself as she said, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Fenris sneered. “I’m sure you are. I was very touched by the manner with which you fled before I was awakened.”

She tilted her head to the side, looking as though she were resisting the urge to look away from him entirely. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” she said quietly. “Not after everything I’ve done.” When he studied the passing shadows in her eyes, he found that he almost believed her. She was so easy to believe. “I wanted… if you saw me…I wanted it to be your choice.”

“By which you mean that you were too much of a coward to face me,” he scoffed, standing straight and taking a step towards her.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, her eyes continuing to focus on him while she spoke. “If you had done to someone what I’ve done to you, then you might struggle to face them also.”

Fenris took another step forward, glowering at her. Her impassive expression was as infuriating as the insinuation that he was capable of the same treachery as she. “I would _never_ do to someone what you have done to me,” he hissed venomously.

She shifted against the wall, nodding her head and her eyes darting quickly to the side before returning to him. “Yes,” she breathed. “I know. I didn’t mean to suggest that.”

It was too easy to believe her. Her voice was gentle, soft, and still affectionate even in the face of his anger. When he glared at here, there was a tenderness in her eyes that he would have once convinced himself was love. He loathed her and her eyes. Those eyes that had made him believe that she was capable of feelings of compassion and love. Those eyes that had forced him to spare her life when he should have killed her. He wanted to pry them from her skull, feeling her blood wash over him as she screamed with that lovely voice of hers. He wanted to feel her writhing beneath him as he added new bruises to ones that still lingered on her neck. He wanted to make her gasp and beg and cry out for him to hurt her more.

He said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as he glowered at her and she continued to look at him with that maddeningly affection in her eyes. “They told me you were returning to Kirkwall when they captured you,” Hawke said at last, her voice even but tinged with sadness. “I’m sorry. It… it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for me. I hope that they weren’t too hard on you.”

“The most hospitable group of blood mages I’ve yet to come across,” he answered dryly, his lip curling. “They barely paid me any mind. I was just bait to capture the real prize.” His eyes passed over the prize in question with evident disdain.

Hawke turned her face away from him, looking towards an expanse of nothingness that lay past the archway. “I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t mean to get anyone involved in my mess, least of all you.” Bowing her head, she added in muted tones, “I thought you were gone.”

“And so I was,” he told her bitterly. “I had no wish to spend a moment longer in your city once I discovered what you were.”

Slowly, almost cautiously, she looked back at him. “Did you… come back for me?”

That much should have been evident to her without idiotic inquiry. There was nothing else in that festering settlement to draw him back. Still, he scoffed, looking away from her. “What? So I could bask in the glory of your noxious presence?” He managed to laugh derisively with a savage glint in his eyes. When he glanced back at her, he saw that she was nodding, her eyes welling with trace amounts of fresh tears.

“That’s not what I meant,” she murmured, staring at the ground. “I’m not a fool. I know you don’t love me.”

“And you’re, what…disappointed?” he snarled, teeth gritting together. “How could I ever love something like you?” he hissed, lunging towards her until he was perhaps a foot from where she stood. This close, he could see the wetness of her tears clumping her lashes together when she lifted her eyes to meet his. She didn’t cower away from him, but instead met his gaze coolly, seeming resigned rather than frightened.

Shaking her head, she sighed, “I don’t expect you to.”

She was infuriatingly calm. After all she had done and with all he could do to her in that moment, she had the nerve to look almost tranquil. She had the nerve to look remorseful—as if it were possible for something like her to feel remorse. “When I look at you, I feel sick,” he snarled. “You disgust me.” Leaning close to her, specks of his saliva flew towards her while he spoke. She closed her eyes, though she didn’t shy away from him or lift her hand to wipe away the spit that glistened on her face.

“I disgust myself,” she replied softly.

“And I’m meant to forgive you because you claim to be penitent?” he hissed, drawing back from her a pace or two. “Nothing you offer is real. Not your sorrow or your contrition. Even your love was a lie.”

Her eyes opened then, her brow furrowing. “No,” she objected quickly, almost as if speaking had been a reflex rather than a conscious choice. “That was real. Hate me, hurt me, kill me… but know at least that I love you.” All the while she spoke, she did so with such rapidity that it seemed as if the stream of words had caught her quite off-guard. After she’d spoken, she looked surprised with herself and then, quite suddenly, let out a burst of laughter. Shaking her head, she looked down and added, “I know that there’s no redemption in that, but it is true.”

She had almost drawn him in with that soft voice, with her bowed head, and with the dark lashes that cast long shadows over her wan cheeks. While she spoke, she had almost managed once more to make him believe her. He hated her for that. “You returned me to Danarius for a handful of coin!” he shouted, reminding himself of the reason why he must never allow himself to be taken in by her again.

She nodded, closing her eyes. Twin trails of tears glided over her cheeks and dripped down her chin. He watched the droplets darken the fabric of her clothes as he balled his hands into fists at his sides. “I know,” she whispered, her voice cracking on the second word as if she were an adolescent. When her eyes opened, looking back to him, he saw that her impassivity had been replaced with her old, familiar sorrow. “And I know that that’s something that can’t be erased,” she added shakily. “I know that I only made it worse with all the months of lying.” Another tear trembled on her lower lashes, finally breaking free to fall onto her flushed cheek. Her lips quivered visibly as she fought and failed to keep her voice steady. “I let you believe that I was someone worth loving, when I knew that there was no way I deserved it.” Her voice wavered uncontrollably, cracking and breaking on nearly every other word. “I thought… I thought that I wanted your forgiveness…or my own…but that was impossible.” She shook her head, clearing her throat as she did so. “That was a horrible thing to hope for. I wanted so many horrible things.” Shifting against the wall, twisting her hands against her clothing, she murmured, “I wanted to keep you with me. I wanted you to want me the way I wanted you. I wanted to be the person you thought I was.”

Her eyes, which had long been tilted downwards as she fought back the resurgence of her tears, flicked upwards when her stammering came to a faltering end. In her eyes, he saw an expression that was almost pleading. An expression that made him wonder what it was that she was pleading for. He allowed himself to ask, though he kept his voice sharp with disdain as he did so. “And what, pray tell, do you want now?”

She was silent, watching his face, watching the hatred and the loathing that were written on his features. Her battle against her tears seemed to be turning in her favor now and her face was almost peaceful as she said, her voice low, “I want you to be rid of me.” Hawke lifted her hands, wiping her fingertips across her cheeks and drying them as best she could with that single swipe of her hands. “All I’ve ever done is cause you pain and, of all the people I’ve ever known, you deserve most to be happy. And I….” Her words caught in her throat, but she swallowed, fighting to continue. “And I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve any of the things I hoped for. I don’t deserve forgiveness and I don’t want it.” She shook her head, almost smiling as she added, “I don’t even deserve to live.”

He stared at her, eyes flicking over her, then back to her face where he met her gaze, seeing something almost desperate and manic in her eyes. “And yet you are alive,” he said coldly, appraising her expression carefully.

“If you can call it that.” When she spoke now, she was calm once more, her brow furrowed and her eyes distressed but her voice even. “I know that I’m a monster, Fenris,” she murmured. “I don’t ask you to believe anything else. But believe that I love you. I... I’m not saying that because I want you to love me in return. I just… I thought you should know that you’ll be loved. Wherever you end up, you will find someone. Someone worthy of you. And they won’t be able to help themselves from loving you.” She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “I love you so much that I made myself believe that maybe I had a soul. I made myself believe that I was someone worthy of being loved.” Though her head remained bowed, she lifted her gaze to him. “But I was just fooling myself, wasn’t I?”

“And you fooled me as well. That must bring you such pleasure.” His tone was bitter and touched with an edge of mocking, but he found that the inflection did not come naturally. He was consciously infusing his voice with coldness, forcing himself not to allow her to drive deeper within him. She looked soft, almost delicate, as she slouched her shoulders forward with quiet defeat on her face. Her voice was gentle, but resigned and, when he spoke, Fenris felt himself weakening. He hated that weakness, that susceptibility to her. And he hated her for mentioning the future, for forcing him to imagine what his future would be. A future with someone worthy of him, as she said. Someone, but not her. It couldn’t be her and he didn’t want it to be. But he didn’t want it to be anyone else.

“I take no pleasure in this,” she said steadily. “The only thing I regret more than letting you believe in me is giving you to Danarius.”

“I’m not convinced that a creature like you can even feel regret.” He heard his own voice, suddenly hushed and suddenly tainted with doubt that he didn’t want to feel. It was a doubt that she was forcing him to feel. He wondered if she was even aware of what she was doing to him.

When she spoke, she met his eye, her voice earnest. “I’ve never regretted anything half so much as what I’ve done to you.” Her lips twisted into a melancholy smile. “I’m not a good person, Fenris. I can’t delude myself or you anymore on that point. No amount of wanting to be good or of loving you can make a difference.” She tilted her head to the side, lifting her fingers to toy with her braided hair; he watched as she did so, remembering how her hair had felt under his own hands. “And I do love you,” she went on gently. “But that doesn’t change anything, does it? It makes it worse, somehow, that I treated you the way I did. That I took something from you that I had no right to.”

For a long moment, he stared at her and she looked back at him. He had thought these things himself, knowing full well that she was a monster, wondering if she had loved him, knowing that it didn’t matter if she had. Something happened then as he watched her, as he saw her forcing herself to keep looking into his eyes. He saw her resignation, her sincerity, and, outshining all else in her expression, her love for him. In one horrible moment, he knew that he believed her.

“I will never forgive what you’ve done,” he told her, holding her gaze.

Hawke nodded once in acknowledgement of what she knew was an undeniable truth. “I know.”

He took a step forward. “So, what would have me do?” he asked.

Her confusion registered on her face. “What?”

“What would you have me do with you?” he repeated, studying her expression.

Her lips parted slightly as she tried to find the words to answer a question that she had never expected to be asked. “I…,” she began before cutting off, shaking her head and looking down for a moment before composing herself and looking back at him with renewed certainty. “Kill me. End it.” There was clarity in her face, as though she had never felt such conviction in her life. Slowly, she began to close the small space between them. “You know who I am. You know what I’ve done. You know what I deserve.” She stood before him, looking up at him as she, slowly, reached down and took his hand. He flinched at her touch, but did not pull away as she brought his hand to her chest, arranging his hand so that it rested with an open palm over her heart. He could feel the rapid gallop of her heart as he looked down to where his fingers splayed out against the dark fabric of her robes. Her body was warm, seeming to send an electric thrill through him. Fenris knew that the sensation was partly revulsion, partly the desire to accept her invitation and plunge his hand into her chest, but he also knew that it was not entirely these things. There was something else mingling with those feelings. Something that made his heart thump as uncontrollably as hers. “Come on, Fenris,” she whispered, laying her hand over his and pressing it harder against herself. “Don’t let me get away with it,” she murmured, rubbing her thumb lightly over the back of his hand. “Come on. Do it.” He looked at her; her face was close to his, desperate and transitioning from composure to mania. Fenris could hear the rattling gasps of her breath as she trembled, still clutching his hand to her body.

“And if I don’t?” He spoke quietly, watching her, feeling her pulse running through him as his heart began to beat in time with hers. Hawke was silent, staring back at him. He waited, unsure of how she would answer and unsure of what he would do. She was daring him to kill her, pleading with him, and, the more she wanted him to put an end to it, the more uncertain he was that he would be able to.

“It can’t end any other way,” Hawke murmured, smiling softly. “If you don’t kill me, you have to get away from me. Go. Or ask me to leave.” Her fingers tightened over his hand. “But it could all be over so quickly. It’ll be easy,” she added in a desperate, wheedling tone. “You’ve done it before. I’m no different from them, Fenris. I enslaved you. I lied to you.” Her eyes turned from his at last, her head bowing forward as she tried to hide the fact that her eyes were watering. “I violated you,” she managed to say, her voice sounding ragged. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she lifted his hand to her lips and lightly kissed his knuckles. Fenris felt a tear fall onto the back of his hand. “Please. It’s just one more mage,” she whispered, her lips fluttering against his skin as she spoke. Her eyes tilted back up towards his as she lowered his hand back to her heart. “Just one more.”

“Don’t think that you can tell me what to do. Not after all you’ve done.” Fenris jerked his hand back from her, balling it into a fist at his side as he snarled, “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Why not?” It wasn’t quite a question, but more of a pitiful, childish whine.

“Because you want me to,” he said flatly, his eyes narrowing.

For the first time, he saw something like irritation flickering across her face. “What do you want from me, Fenris?” she sighed, walking away from him and leaning with her back against the archway. He turned, following her movements with his eyes. “I can’t make it better! I can’t change what I’ve done! What do you want?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Hawke exhaled heavily, lifting one of her hands and raking it back through her hair. “There aren’t infinite options, Fenris. Kill me, or leave me. Those are the only two options. And I can assure you that the former would be far more merciful than the latter.”

“I am not interested in being merciful towards you, nor are those the only options before me.” As he spoke, he began to walk slowly towards her.

The muscle of Hawke’s jaw twitched visibly as her teeth clenched together. “There aren’t any other options,” she sighed, looking as if she might finally run through her reserves of strength and crumple to the ground.

“I could stay,” he said, his voice low and rumbling in his chest as he drew closer to her. He watched her carefully, monitoring her expression and wondering if she’d say what he expected from her. If she’d behave like the others, always clutching onto him when the opportunity arose. He hoped she was like them and, in the same moment, hoped that she was more.

“I won’t let you,” she murmured, her voice shaking though her stare was firm and unfaltering. “I love you too much to let you stay with someone like me.” Rising from the wall, she began to walk past him through the archway. “If you won’t leave, then I will.”

Fenris bowed his head, fighting the urge to reach out to her as she moved past him and, somewhere in the distance, became aware of someone calling her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Okay, so there's going to be two more and the epilogue. They keep sort of multiplying on their own... I suppose there's no help for it.
> 
> B) The poem at the beginning is a rather lovely little thing I remember from my middle school Latin days. Google translate should do the trick. Okay, I'll just save you the trouble and put the rough translation here:  
> "I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask?/ I do not know, but I feel it happening and it's torture."


	31. Alea Iacta Est (Part 1 of 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter was getting way too monstrous and so I figured that, instead of making you guys wait while I edited, like, 30,000 words, I would just post the first half while I was working on the second. Thanks for being so patient.
> 
> Spoilers and dialogue from The Last Straw. Again, some stuff has been altered.

Even without knowing at once who was calling for her, Hawke knew instantly that she was in no mood for what they were going to say. It had taken the last remnants of her energy simply to walk a few steps past Fenris and, if she did not keep going now, Hawke feared that she would be unable to leave at all. Instead of turning towards the voice that called to her, she turned abruptly away and summoned enough strength to jog onwards in the general direction of Hightown. She made it no further than a few strides, however, before Aveline caught up to her and, catching her arm, pulled her to a halt. Hawke stood still, unable to look back towards Aveline when she knew that Fenris was not far off in that direction. When Hawke stood, still and unresponsive, Aveline sighed heavily and came around in front of Hawke, looking at her with an odd mixture of concern and irritation. “I’d rather you wouldn’t run from me, Hawke,” said Aveline sternly, though her eyes still held a large amount of concern in them.

“I wasn’t running from you,” murmured Hawke quietly.

Hawke watched as Aveline’s gaze flitted back to the archway where Fenris remained, surveying them with narrowed eyes and his head tilted slightly to the side. “Yes,” said Aveline, her voice becoming gentler. “I am well aware that this is not the best time, but there are pressing matters that only you can address.”

Hawke heaved a sigh and bowed her head. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“I wouldn’t have come to find you if it weren’t necessary,” Aveline assured her. “The First Enchanter’s got into yet another argument with the Knight-Commander, but it seems more serious this time. They’re causing a scene right here in Lowtown and, if it goes on much longer, I fear we could have a riot on our hands.”

Hawke wrapped her arms around herself, pulling in tightly on her sides. “Aveline, when I say that I can’t handle this right now, I do mean it.”

Leaning forward, and with some of the softness leaving her voice, Aveline said, “Orsino has asked specifically for you, Hawke. I have the others watching to make sure that things don’t get out of hand too quickly, but Meredith and Orsino respect your input. My intervention has proved useless in this case.” Aveline’s final words were tinged with a hint of bitterness. Hawke had to admit that, unjust and irrational as it was, neither Meredith nor the First Enchanter respected the guard-captain as much as they respected the Champion of Kirkwall. Squeezing her arms tighter around herself, Hawke sighed. She felt as if she might fall apart if she didn’t keep holding herself together and, to make matters infinitely worse, she was aware that Fenris was drawing closer to her and Aveline, no longer allowing them distance. He came to stand a pace or two behind Hawke, out of the line of her peripheral vision, but well within the bounds of her awareness.

She remained silent, her neck stiffening as she tried to force herself to keep from turning to the side. Aveline’s jaw tightened as she looked between Hawke and Fenris. It was clear that neither of them was in a state of particular emotional stability, but Aveline was hardly going to allow the Templars and mages to erupt into outright war simply because those who were meant to bring order to the city were too emotionally compromised to consider their responsibilities. “You’re the Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke,” said Aveline firmly. “No matter what you are going through, the city still needs you to keep order.”

Hawke knew that there was an annoying amount of truth in that remark. The city did seem to offer an unending stream of problems and the people that were meant to deal with such matters were proving increasingly incapable of resolving those issues on their own. When Hawke had ascended to power in Kirkwall, she had happily accepted the authority and power that was given to her and now, with her reluctance to involve herself in the lives of others, her absence was creating a void that was proving just as problematic as her presence had been. There was no helping it, apparently. There was something of a dearth of options in that moment. She could send Aveline away, but the issue that she most feared addressing would still be there, just a pace or two behind her. Hawke shook her head and exhaled heavily. Slowly, she turned, looking over her shoulder towards Fenris.

As it always did, her heart jolted uncomfortably when she looked at him. When her eyes met with his, she tried to read his expression, but to no avail. His brow was knit with a fusion of annoyance and slight confusion, the corners of his mouth were turned down slightly into a frown, and the look in his eyes was indiscernible no matter how she tried to make sense of it. She could not begin to guess what emotion he felt when he continued to stare at her. Awkwardly meeting his gaze, Hawke shifted her weight. “I…,” she began to say before trailing off and finding that there was a very large lump in her throat. He was there just a foot or two away from her and, if she left now, they might never again find themselves so close to one another. She would be left wondering every day what had become of him and why he had left her alive when she would so much rather have been dead. The words of their parting would remain in her mind for every day of the rest of her life. “I don’t know what to say,” she finished lamely, utterly incapable to finding words that would adequately reflect the weight of their parting.

“You’re going with her, then?” said Fenris flatly, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly as he asked the question.

“I can’t stay,” Hawke replied shakily, her lips almost trembling into a smile as she moved to Aveline’s side and further away from Fenris.

His eyes narrowed as he glowered at Hawke. “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he growled, his voice low and threatening. “This conversation isn’t over simply because you will it to be.”

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but his scowl deepened and she found that his resolute expression and harsh tone did not invite her to argue. She knew that she ought to raise further objection; it would be immensely ill-advised to remain in his presence any longer. With Aveline here, at least, she could flee before she did something that might very well destroy him. Words evaded her, however, and she was left gaping like a fish and staring into his eyes while his expression seemed to grow increasingly cool.

Thankfully, Aveline saved Hawke the trouble of vocalizing any coherent thoughts. “I need her with me now,” said Aveline sternly, stepping forward from Hawke’s side and advancing on Fenris. It seemed that the guard-captain’s patience was wearing thin and she had a wish to resolve the matter with the First Enchanter and Meredith rather than waiting, perhaps forever, for Hawke and Fenris to come to some agreement.

Hawke looked down, tearing her eyes away from Fenris so that she might stand a better chance of thinking straight. “I have to go with Aveline,” she muttered, failing to keep her voice as steady as she would have liked it to be. “It shouldn’t take long—Meredith and Orsino are typically reasonable enough—and I can find you afterwards. At my home, if there’s still more you’d like to discuss.” Once she had successfully managed to say these words, Hawke felt safe to look at him again.

He was looking at her skeptically, almost as though he were amazed that she was foolish enough to think that he would go along with such a proposition. “Yes, because naturally, I have complete confidence in your word,” he drawled. “I’m coming with you,” he added insistently, in such a tone that she knew it would be impossible to dissuade him.

“Fine,” said Hawke with a sigh that was almost a groan. Later, she would convince him to resolve this; now at least, it looked like he was intent on dragging matters out. Turning back to Aveline, she added, “Lead on, then.”

Hawke walked quickly, trying to clear her mind as she fought off the acidic bile that was flooding her entrails. Aveline was speaking, offering more information about the situation and what exactly had triggered the argument between Orsino and Meredith, but Hawke was nearly oblivious then to anything that Aveline was saying. Fenris was trailing behind them and she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head as she moved onwards through Lowtown. She would have liked to think that she understood him, but it was impossible to comprehend what it was that he wanted from her. Before that day, she would have sworn that he wanted to kill her. She had thought that they at least had that wish in common. When he’d gone, leaving her alive, Hawke had been baffled. It had occurred to her that it might have been accidental and that he had left her alive when he had intended to kill her. Now, however, that explanation was no longer valid. She’d begged. She had pleaded with him and she had tried to remove any chance that he would feel guilt for doing what she had thought would satisfy them both. Even with her within his grasp and even with her begging him for death, he had refused her release. That in itself was more of a surprise than Hawke could fully process. What had followed—when he had suggested that he might stay—was too much to be believed. The longer that she tried to puzzle it out, the more Hawke began to believe that perhaps she had imagined it. There was, she thought, the very real possibility that she had somehow fallen into the Fade and was being tempted by a desire demon. Whether it was a demon or whether it was truly Fenris who had said those things, however, made no difference. If he remained with her, even if only to ensure that she never forgot what she had done, then he would never move on himself. That anger was toxic—he had said so once himself. She had thought that, if he killed her, he would be able to let go of that hate. She had thought that he might be able to move forward, living without a lingering cloud of loathing hanging over him. If he stayed, he’d never find the peace he deserved. If he wouldn’t go, she would have to find another way for freeing him from her.

Hawke knew that they were drawing near to Orsino and Meredith even before Aveline told her so. The sounds of their raised voices echoed through the streets and the only thing that seemed to be holding back a sizeable crowd from gathering was the fact that, as Aveline had said, Varric, Merrill, and even Sebastian were circling around the scene, driving passersby away. It was Varric who saw Hawke first and he looked very much relieved to lay eyes on her. This expression of relief was then immediately followed by one of confusion as he caught sight of Fenris. Though he furrowed his brow, Varric said nothing about the elf that skulked along at Hawke’s heels. “Thank the Maker you’re here, Hawke,” he said as she approached him. “The two lovebirds are at it again.”

“So I’ve heard,” she muttered, looking towards where Meredith and Orsino were both shouting and gesticulating wildly. Feeling nearly overcome with weariness, Hawke took a deep breath and walked towards the quarrelling pair. “Enough!” she shouted, raising her voice enough to arrest their attention. When they turned to her, the First Enchanter looked pleased to see her though Meredith looked rather irritated to see that Hawke had joined them. Hawke could hardly blame her; though she and Meredith had never been on bad terms, Hawke had made the allegiance to mages altogether too clear over the years.

“This does not involve you, Champion,” said Meredith coolly, waving Hawke off dismissively.

Orsino glowered at the Knight-Commander and snapped, “ _I_ called her here. I think the people deserve to know what you’ve done.”

“What I have _done_ is protect the people of this city time and time again,” countered Meredith. “What I have _done_ is protect you mages from your curse and your own stupidity! And I will not stop doing it. I will not lower our guard. I dare not!” She gestured towards Hawke as she added, “The Champion knows better than anyone how deep the Circle’s corruption goes. I must find the source.”

Hawke felt a twinge of discomfort, rather wishing that she didn’t have to discuss the faults or merits of the Circle while Fenris was only a few feet behind her. She had rarely spoken of mages in front of him in the past, as she knew well enough what his feelings on the matter were, and it seemed incredibly odd to begin doing so now. “The corruption of this entire city runs deep, and it’s not only with the mages,” Hawke sighed as Meredith stared at her expectantly. “But it can’t possibly help anything to have such obvious animosity between mages and Templars. You two are going to have to at least attempt to find another way to coexist.”

The intensity of Meredith’s expression lessened slightly, but her anger was replaced by obvious distress. “What other option do we have?” she asked, sounding almost as weary as Hawke felt. “Shall we look the other way? Tell the poor victims of a possessed mage that we meant no harm? Tell me, Champion, that you have not seen with your own eyes what they can do, heard the lies of mages that seek power!”

Hawke raked her fingers back over her scalp, feeling the muscles of her shoulders beginning to spasm uncomfortably. “Yes, I have,” she sighed. “Believe me, I have seen the very worst of what mages are capable of doing.” She was altogether too aware of Fenris’ presence and she hoped that what was being said then didn’t compel him to remember all he had suffered in Tevinter. She hoped that the screams didn’t echo in his mind as they did in hers. Clearing her throat, Hawke added, “Power… it does terrible things to people. And mages are born with more power than most. They… we… are so vulnerable to corruption. I have seen more corruption than I ever wished to and I know what happens if there are not boundaries in place. But that doesn’t mean that you can push these mages until they feel they have no choice but to rebel. If you condemn them all for the sins of a few, then you will only be driving them down the path to darkness.” Hawke spoke slowly and evenly, but her muscles were continuing to ache with the strain of keeping herself from quivering and her head was beginning to throb.

Orsino offered his support of Hawke’s words, turning to Meredith and adding. “You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so.”

“I know,” said Meredith quietly, her eyes showing the depth of her distress. “And it breaks my heart to do it, but we must be vigilant.” She shook her head, her expression hardening as she did so. “If you cannot tell me another way, do not brand me a tyrant.”

Hawke opened her mouth, wanting to offer some solution, but she found no words. She might have argued once for freedom. She might have said that mages could be trusted to govern themselves. What she had seen in Tevinter, however, had altered her perspective in ways that she had not truly considered until that moment. The powerful would always abuse their authority, resorting to anything to gain more of what they desired. All people, she knew, were capable of evil. Mages were no different from others in that respect. But every mage was born with power. Power that was a constant temptation, always lending itself to abuse. Perhaps that was too much for any mage to resist on their own.

Hawke was freed from her ruminations when she felt a large hand on her shoulder. Startled, she jerked and looked up to find Anders, standing beside her. His expression surprised her more than his presence. There was a sadness in his eyes that she had never seen in them even during his darkest moments and, furrowing her brow, Hawke tried to determine what the cause of that distress might be. His eyes drifted from her face and she followed the line of his sight to Fenris. Hawke saw that Fenris’ eyes were narrowed as he watched Hawke and Anders carefully. Looking back at Anders, however, she knew that it could not be Fenris’ presence alone that was causing that expression. He scarcely looked like himself any longer, stripped of all lightness and mirth. Cocking her head to the side, Hawke murmured, “Are you alright?”

He shook his head, removing his hand from her shoulder, and turning his gaze forwards towards the First Enchanter and Meredith. Hawke, however, kept her eyes focused on him.

“This is getting us nowhere!” she heard the First Enchanter shout. “Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this.” Anders looked so grave, his face ashen and the circles beneath his eyes almost black. It seemed as if she ought to have noticed some evidence of his distress before. Hawke reached out, lightly laying her fingers on his forearm and trying to draw his attention. He would not look at her.

“You will not bring Her Grace into this,” hissed Meredith.

It was then that Anders moved away from Hawke’s side, stepping forward. “The Grand Cleric cannot help you,” he said loudly, announcing his presence to the Knight-Commander and Orsino.

Neither of them looked particularly thrilled to see him. As a friend and lover of the Champion, Anders had often met with them and had never been shy about his distaste for Templars and for the First Enchanter. Meredith scowled at Anders as he drew nearer to her and curtly demanded that he explain himself. Hawke looked between them, a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Ordinarily, she might have been able to control Anders somewhat, getting him to hold his tongue in front of Meredith, but she sensed now that he was operating beyond even her control.

“I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals while those who would lead us bow to their Templar jailers.” Anders spoke forcefully, his voice tinged with a strength brought on by cold fury.

Orsino heard the accusation that was directed at him and seemed less than pleased that an apostate should speak so impudently of him, but Anders would not suffer Orsino’s objections. “The Circle has failed us, Orsino!” she shouted, thumping his staff loudly against the stones that paved the streets of Lowtown.

Hawke felt a chill pass over her skin as Anders spoke and she knew, even before she saw the brilliant cracks and flares of light appearing over the mages’ body, that Justice was making himself known. Taking a step forward, Hawke’s eyes widened. “Anders?” she breathed, cautious and fearful of what the spirit would drive him to now that his control was shattering.

Though the cracks of light that bespoke Justice’s presence had faded, Anders did not seem to have calmed. He continued to ignore Hawke’s words, not turning towards her when she sais his name. He seemed not to hear her at all as he whispered darkly, “The time has come to act. There can be no half-measures.”

“Anders?” Hawke repeated, drawing close to him, staring up at his face. Still, he didn’t look at her, his eyes turned instead towards the skyline. Her voice shook as she said his name again, but his attention was fixed elsewhere. “What did you do?” she murmured, following his eyes towards the place from which his gaze would not be diverted.

“There can be no turning back,” he murmured, his voice quiet and his words meant only for her.

Hawke was on the verge of speaking, but, in that moment, there came answer to the question she had not yet come to reiterating.

In the distance, high above where they stood, she could see a bright glow of crimson light beginning to emanate from the towering form of the Chantry. It happened too quickly, the sudden, catastrophic blast altering the fate of Kirkwall in an instant. And yet, as Hawke stared with horror towards the welling light of the explosion, it seemed to happen at a crawl. She watched as the stones divided from the structure of the building, bursting outwards over the surrounding area. The light caught the shattered pieces of glass that shot out of the windows, flying through the air and glittering as they flew outwards and showered over Hightown. Hawke watched as a pillar of blaring light extended from the crumbling building up into the whirling mass of dust and debris that churned just below the clouds. The light was blinding, searing her eyes as she looked at it, and then suddenly the light gave way to darkness as ash and smoke filled the air.

Even where they stood, the ash arched overhead, blocking out the light of the sun as the shadow of the explosion spread. Horrorstruck and dazed, Hawke looked towards Anders. He was still beside her, his eyes still turned towards Hightown as he gazed upon the wreckage of the Chantry. Hawke felt the ringing in her ears and the pulsing of her headache as she tried to make sense of what had just occurred. But there was no sense in this. It was impossible. It was impossible that the man who stood beside her had done something so catastrophic and yet could still look upon the chaos and destruction without the least bit of remorse in his eyes.

Everything seemed so terribly far away. Hawke knew that the others were shouting, but she found her mind almost blank. She could feel Anders’ body beside her, but it did not feel like him. There was nothing familiar in his presence and, when she looked at him, he looked so foreign, like a stranger. It was not the face of the man she had known for so many years—the man she had trusted and fought beside and held. That man had fallen apart, just like everything else. Everything and everyone became tainted in the end. Hawke stared uncomprehendingly at Anders as he turned his own eyes towards Orsino.

The First Enchanter had stalked over to them, his eyes wide and filled with shock and loathing. “Why?” he spat towards Anders. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Anders remained unshaken. “I removed the chance of compromise because there can be no compromise,” he said firmly, looking from Orsino to Meredith.

Hawke did the same as Anders, looking from the First Enchanter to the Knight-Commander, but, when she saw Meredith’s expression, Hawke could not divert her gaze. The woman’s face was steely, her blue eyes flashing as the looked from the destroyed Chantry towards Orsino. “The Grand Cleric has been slain by magic, the Chantry destroyed,” she said slowly, anger written across her face as she spoke. “As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment. Every mage in the Circle is to be executed immediately!”

Orsino wheeled around, turning to face her and left Anders behind as he moved hastily towards Meredith. “The Circle didn’t even do this!” he exclaimed, his eyes imploring the Knight-Commander to see reason. “Champion,” he called desperately, turning back to Hawke, “you can’t let her! Help us stop this madness.”

Before she could so much as inhale to answer, Meredith has stepped in front of Orsino, advancing on Hawke. “And I demand you stand with us!” she said, slamming her fist against her open palm for emphasis. “Even you must see that this outrage cannot be tolerated.”

From beside her, Hawke heard Anders say quietly, “It can’t be stopped now. You have to choose.” Though his voice was low and though he spoke evenly, Hawke thought that she heard something almost excited in his tone. He had done it. He had definitively shattered all hope Kirkwall had of reaching some diplomatic resolution between mages and Templars. He had exploded all chance for a peaceful compromise between the warring factions and now Hawke found herself wedged firmly between the two sides. Breathlessly, she looked back to where her companions were staring at her. All of their eyes were upon her, all of them standing silently while they watched her expectantly. Aveline’s jaw was clenched firmly, Merrill’s eyes were limpid and shining with water, and Sebastian looked trapped between fury and despair. It was on Fenris that Hawke’s eyes lingered longest. There was no expectation in his eyes, but there was something unreadable in them. Perhaps he did not look at her expectantly because he only expected the worst from her. He’d seen enough of her to know that there was no possible way that she could fix this or any other situation.

Breathing shallowly, her heart hammering, Hawke turned back towards Meredith and Orsino. “This… this isn’t for me to decide,” she managed to say, shaking her head. “There’s nothing I can do to resolve this.”

“You are the Champion of Kirkwall! Do your duty or fall with the other apostates!” shouted Meredith.

Hawke tried to remain staunch in the face of the Knight-Commander’s ire. “You’re right. I am an apostate,” she said almost steadily, somehow managing to meet Meredith’s eye without shaking. “I am a mage and I know that I should defend them on that grounds alone… but I can’t condone what Anders has done.” She looked towards Orsino and saw his trepidation, his fear of losing her support. Trying not to waver and trying to keep her voice firm and audible, she continued, “And I can’t overlook what I have seen mages do in Kirkwall. The constant abuses of our power—it’s terrifying and staggering and I can see why you doubt the Circle. But the mages of the Circle are not responsible for what happened here today. Anders is, and Anders alone. And I can’t watch anyone—mages or otherwise—die for crimes they haven’t even committed. I can’t stand with you on this, Meredith. Not if you insist on annulling the Circle because of something an apostate has done.” Every part of her throbbed from the effort of maintaining her composure.

Fenris could see well enough that in the wake of the explosion, Hawke was making a choice that was, to say the very least, ill-advised. He would not have expected her to behave differently; he had known from the moment that the wreckage had shot into the air that Hawke would be swept into the chaos. She was always at the center of destruction whenever it arouse. He knew also, when she met his eyes as the ashes fell, that he would have no choice but to fight alongside her. Whatever she chose, he would be swept up in the chaos that whirled around her. It was an inevitability. She was making a mistake, as was quite evidently a habit of hers, but he could not allow her to be cut down by a Templar’s sword. Her life was forfeit—she had offered him governance of her life and death and there wasn’t the slightest chance that he would allow her to die at the hands of another. If that meant fighting alongside her, then there was no helping it.

He watched as the Knight-Commander drew nearer to Hawke and he watched as Hawke stood her ground. “Think carefully, Champion,” Meredith warned in a low voice. “Stand with them and you share their fate.”

Hawke looked up into those hard, blue eyes. “My fate was decided long ago,” she whispered, her voice sounding even more resigned than she felt.

Meredith sneered, leaning away from Hawke and staring at her with distaste. “You are a fool, Champion,” she snarled. Then, turning away from Hawke, she strode off into the assembled Templars that had gathered in Lowtown with her. “Kill them all!” she ordered, gesturing back towards Hawke and the others. “I will raise the rest of the Order,” she added ominously as her men raised their swords and advanced on their targets.

Orsino ordered his mages to run to safety as Hawke lifted her staff, hurling lighting towards the advancing line of Templars. The moment she had done so, slowing their progress for a moment, Hawke ran back towards Fenris. The Templars were pursuing her, though they were cut off by Aveline and a sudden hail of suppressing fire from the archers, but Hawke hardly bore them any mind. Fenris had come up from the Wounded Coast without a sword and Hawke was all too aware of the fact that he had only his own hands with which to defend himself.

His eyes widened slightly as he saw her running towards him, coming to a halt roughly a foot in front of him and then turning back to shield him from the Templars. It occurred to Fenris then that she found it necessary to defend him, in spite of the fact that his abilities might well have made up for his lack of a weapon. The oddity of Hawke coming to guard him left Fenris taken aback and he watched, his eyebrows raised, as she fought off two Templars that had pursued her past Aveline and through the hail of arrows.

She fought well, though differently than he remembered. She had always been savage, feral, and brutal as she slaughtered her opponents. Her movements had had an animalistic, energetic quality that she now lacked. As she moved before him, guarding him unnecessarily, Fenris noted that she still fought with skill and speed, though there was a grace in her motion that she had lacked before. Her every movement seemed calculated rather that wild and her expression, when he caught sight of it, was composed and focused rather than being contorted into a snarl. He watched her, watched the precision of her movements, transfixed, until he realized that all of the Templars had been slain and Hawke, a bit breathlessly, was approaching him.

“You’re alright?” she panted, her eyes flicking over Fenris to do a cursory inspection for any harm that might have befallen him during the brief skirmish.

“Relatively,” he answered, keeping his voice flat and his expression blank.

Hawke said nothing, but nodded curtly. “I’ve put you in danger again,” she murmured bitterly, turning away from him and beginning to walk away even though her words still hung into the air. Fenris did not respond, but he did feel the slight compulsion to remind her that he had chosen to accompany her on his own accord on this occasion. By the time that he might have pointed out his own autonomy, however, Hawke was already engaged in conversation with the First Enchanter.

“I don’t know if we can win this war, Champion,” he told her, looking around at the fallen Templars and then up at the darkened skies. “But… thank you,” he said at last, meeting Hawke’s eye. Gently, Orsino raised his hand and placed it on Hawke’s shoulder. Weakly, she smiled, accepting the gratitude and warmth that was in that gesture. They stood so for a moment, each in quiet dread of the battle that was to come, before Orsino shook his head and directed his attention to Anders. Hawke also glanced towards where Anders now sat, slumped over on top of a crate with his back towards her and the others. “I will leave your _friend_ for you to deal with,” added Orsino coldly, his eyes still lingering on Anders’ hunched figure. Looking back to Hawke, his eyes softened and, with a resigned sigh, he said, “I must return to the Gallows. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

Hawke nodded, but found that her mouth had all but gone dry. Even while she fought back Meredith’s Templars, Hawke had not forgotten for a moment what Anders had done. She couldn’t forget what he had done, not when evidence of it surrounded her, but she had forgotten that she would likely be the one charged with dealing with him. Ever since she had been named Champion of Kirkwall, her friends had been, more or less, protected simply because they were acquainted with her. Anders had been allowed to keep his clinic in Darktown and, though the Templars advanced on occasion, they had never gone so far as to snatch him up and risk a confrontation with the Champion. Hawke had not thought, however, that, in the wake of what Anders had just done, he would still be under her protection. She had not thought that she would be asked to determine his fate.

She approached him slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground as she moved forward. When she stood before him, Hawke raised her eyes, but found that he did not do the same. His back remained curved over, his head hanging limply, and his eyes would not turn up to her. Slowly, Hawke lowered herself to the ground, kneeling before him so that they would be at eye-level if he would only look up at her. Perhaps it was for the best, however, that she could not see his eyes then. “I… I don’t know what to say,” she said quietly, sitting back on her heels.

When she spoke, Anders lifted his head just enough so that their eyes met. They looked so hollow, so empty. His face had grown thinner, like her own, and Hawke wondered how it was that she had failed to notice it before. She had been so absorbed with her own problems, which she had brought upon herself, that she had failed to see that he was falling apart. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself,” he murmured dejectedly. “I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited.”

“I haven’t awaited this,” she whispered. “You talk about _all_ mages, but you chose this path for us.” Her brow furrowed deeply as she shook her head slightly from side to side, averting her gaze for just a moment. “And now… and now I don’t know what’s going to happen to you. I don’t know why you’d do this.”

“The world needs to see this,” he insisted. He leaned forward on the crate, his face close to hers and his eyes sparking with something that she might have recognized in herself but would never have expected from him. “Then we can all stop pretending that the Circle is a solution. The people fear that we can do, but to use that fear to bludgeon us into submission is wrong! And they do it with our blessing!” His expression was almost fierce as she studied his eyes, looking for anything familiar.

“Maybe they’re right to fear us,” she whispered, finding nothing she knew in his face and abandoning the fruitless search. “We have given them enough cause to doubt that we are capable of handling our power… and your actions here today will do nothing to prove our goodness.” She bowed her head, swallowing in a vain effort to choke back the tears she now felt coming. “I don’t know if I can save you,” she added at last, her voice barely louder than a breath.

Anders lifted his hand, lightly running it over her hair and toying gently with the end of her braid. He heard the soft, stifled sound of Hawke crying and he saw the slight trembling of her shoulders as she kept her head bowed and her face turned away from him. She was crying for him, he realized and, sliding his fingers beneath her chin, he tilted her face upwards so that he could see the tears that ran over her cheeks. “If I pay for this with my life… then I pay,” he said, his voice soft and his eyes momentarily warm as they had been once. Hawke felt her stomach wrenching as she bit down on her lower lip, trying to hold back her more audible sobs.

“But you’re my best friend,” she choked, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He ran his hand over her hair to the back of her head and gently ran his fingertips over the nape of her neck. “And you’re mine,” he whispered, smiling mirthlessly.

Hawke leaned forward, resting her forehead on Anders’ knee as she pinched her eyes shut tightly, trying to fight back her tears. For several long moments, she knelt in this manner, her shoulders shaking and his hand lightly running over her upper back. “I don’t want to make this choice,” she said shakily, as she finally found the strength to sit upright.

Her voice had been strong enough to carry as she spoke then and, beside him, Fenris heard Sebastian make a short, indignant sound. “If I had been in that Chantry today, would you be waffling?” Sebastian asked, his voice drawing Hawke’s attention back to her companions.

She had almost forgotten that they were watching her. And yet, for the most part, all eyes were fixed on her with varying levels of emotion. Only Fenris wasn’t looking towards her at all. His head tilted slightly to the side, he was staring at Sebastian with his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you want the mage dead so badly, do it yourself,” Hawke heard Fenris hiss, his voice barely discernable from where she knelt. “She’s not your assassin.”

Sebastian said nothing in response, but Hawke did see him shoot Fenris a fairly withering glance.

Swallowing, Hawke turned back to Anders, her expression solemn when she met his eye. He was toying with her braid again, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Almost smiling, but with her brows knit tightly, Hawke lifted one of her shaking hands to his hair, mimicking his touch. It was soft and smooth and felt clean beneath her hand. She had felt the softness of his hair so many times through the years. So many times, he had held her and she had kissed him, wrapping her arms over his shoulders and weaving her fingers through his hair. It was so familiar to be touching him and yet, even as she ran her fingers gently across his cheek, he felt far away. None of this seemed real. None of it seemed possible. Lowering her hand away from him, Hawke rose slowly to her feet, his eyes trailing up after her as she stood.

Her face was blanched but her eyes were dry. When her hand returned to him, grasping at his hair, she guided his head back so that his throat was exposed. Anders felt the side of a metal blade lightly pressing against his neck as he looked up at her.

“Whatever you do, just do it,” he said, his voice quiet.

She watched the bob of his throat shift as he swallowed. The blade was so bright against his skin, catching the light as she pulled it away from him slightly. It was all so impossible. Nothing was real. Leaning forward, Hawke pressed her lips to his forehead. His skin was cool and beaded with sweat as his breath swept lightly over her. Drawing back from him slightly, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he breathed.

Standing straight once more, her blade barely touching his throat, she watched as his eyes twitched beneath his closed lids. In that moment, he had certainty. He believed that he had been right. She wondered, looking down at him, if he would ever feel sorry for what he had done that day. She wondered if he would ever know regret. There would be war, she knew, and more death still to come. He didn’t feel the weight of that yet, but she felt sure that the day would come when his certainty would falter. One day he would be crushed beneath that weight, when his faith and his certainty could no longer shield him. There would be nothing he would ever be able to do to repair what he had done and all she could do was to lessen the scope of the war before it truly began. If she had any hope of keeping this conflict contained, then she couldn’t allow Anders to live.

“I’ll see you soon,” she told him shakily, bringing the blade to the side of his neck and thrusting it in forcefully just behind his windpipe and dragging it downward with all her strength. The spray of blood was warm, bathing her as she drew the dagger out of him and let it fall to the ground. She had done her best to make that first thrust so severe that he would bleed out quickly, but Anders still gasped, blood pouring from his mouth as his eyes opened, turning to her. Anders’ body began to slump forward, his eyes losing their focus. Hawke caught him, crashing heavily down to her knees as his body fell limply into her arms. She knelt, holding him tightly to her chest, as his blood continued to empty onto her robes. She felt it, hot and thick, oozing through the fabric of her clothes and onto her skin. Her head was light and her mind disoriented as she gasped for air but continued to feel as if she hadn’t taken a breath. Hawke didn’t even notice that she had started crying as she groped with frantic, bloodied hands against Anders’ hair.

“It will never be enough, but it’s a start.” Sebastian spoke quietly, his words clearly not meant for Hawke’s hearing, but she heard him still.

Sobbing, she pulled Anders tighter to her body, her torso arching over his. Under her hands, his body was still warm. With her eyes closed, she buried her face in his sopping clothes, nearly drowning in the scent of his blood. “I’m so sorry,” she wept, leaning away from his body and trying to take deep breaths in an effort to suppress her tears. Hawke had no sense whatsoever as to how long it took her to stop crying, but it was only when she felt some slight confidence in her ability to keep from sobbing that she lightly released Anders from her arms and lay him out across the ground. When she stood, her knees were shaking and her entire body was covered with blood. She noticed neither of these things, but the others did as they watched her with wide eyes. When she looked back at them, her gaze was steady though her face was streaked with blood. Silently, Hawke walked to where she had laid her staff and retrieved it from the ground.

“We… had all best get to the Gallows and quick,” said Varric slowly, exchanging a look with the others and then turning back to Hawke.

“Yes,” she replied without looking at him. “Yes, you’re right. But there’s something I have to do first.”

They watched as she walked over to Anders’ body and, wordlessly, began to rain oil over his corpse. It ran over him, soaking into his robes and pooling in dark puddles on the stones beneath his body. He was doused thoroughly in the thick, glossy oil before Hawke drew back from him, putting a good deal of distance between herself and the body before hurling a brilliant ball of fire towards it. The grease caught quickly, burning blue with its heat as Anders became lost in the licking flames that consumed him. For a moment, Hawke watched the fire, before turning back to the others.

Her expression was blank as she observed them, seeing their pity and choosing to ignore it. She could hear the hiss and crackle of Anders’ pyre when she realized that Fenris was not standing with the others. She furrowed her brow, glancing quickly around until she saw him retrieving a large sword that one of the Templars had held. Hawke approached him slowly, her robes trailing blood behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice coarse from crying.

“You’d rather I remain unarmed, then?” he replied, testing the balance of the sword as he spoke. “Do you intend to continue serving as my bodyguard throughout the entirety of the battle?” The sword seemed to meet his standards and he looked up at her, one of his eyebrows raised quizzically.

“No, I….” She cleared her throat, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do this.” Lifting the hand that did not clutch her staff, Hawke raked her fingers back through her hair. “I have to,” she said quietly, though without any tremor in her voice. “I think that I have to do this. But you shouldn’t have to get any more involved in this than you already are. I know how you feel about mages.”

“You are clearly determined to get yourself killed,” he replied, narrowing his eyes slightly as he looked at her. “I don’t intend to allow that to happen.”

“Fenris, I—”

“You have promised me the privilege of ending you,” he said, interrupting her brusquely. “I will not let that honor go to another.” There was, once more, an edge to his tone that did not suggest he would be receptive to arguments on her part.

“As long as you stay safe,” she said quietly, averting her gaze slightly and looking over his shoulder. “We’ll get this done quickly, then.”

When they moved onwards, weaving through the streets of Lowtown towards the docks, it was clear that panic was already sweeping through the city. The few people that were in the streets were rushing for their homes or fleeing the city with packed bags clutched in their hands. Most of the citizens of Kirkwall, however, were probably already indoors with the bolts fastened. Even this far from Hightown, there was fire in the streets and wreckage from the explosion. The ash that had stretched overhead was settling now, though it was still in every breath Hawke took. She could taste the acrid smoke in the air as she wound through the streets and wondered how bad the devastation was closer to the Chantry. Her own home was not that far from the blast and, if the damage had spread all the way to Lowtown, Hawke hated to think what had happened in Hightown. It seemed too much to hope that Orana and the others were alright. She and the dwarves and Brutus had all very likely been in the estate when the Chantry had exploded. If the initial explosion hadn’t killed them, Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal would have been able to get out into the streets, but she wondered if any of them would think to make sure that Brutus was alright. He was a clever beast, but Hawke wasn’t entirely sure that he would be able to open the door in the event that the house caught fire. She felt herself tearing up again as she thought of him howling desperately while the building went up in flames around him, the smoke filling his lungs and stinging his eyes while he clawed wildly at the door. Hawke looked down, fighting back such dark thoughts, and caught sight of her blood-drenched hands. But she couldn’t think about that either. All she could do was try to stop the chaos from spreading.

As they dipped deeper into Lowtown, Hawke caught the sound of a woman crying out for help. Glancing back towards the others, she urged them onwards and guided them swiftly towards the source of the cries. By the time they arrived, however, the woman who had called out was already beyond their help. She was a mage, Hawke noticed, with a small number of Templars drawing towards her. The girl was a petite, fragile-looking sort of girl, but she did not remain so for long. Elevated into the air, her body engulfed with the russet flames of her anger, the mage began to change before their eyes while the Templars stumbled back from her. The lights that danced around her frame were brilliant, almost blinding, as Hawke and the others drew near, watching helplessly as the girl transformed into an Abomination. Its skin was rough, purpled and reeking of death, as it charged towards the Templars.

It was Aveline who went forward first, rushing towards the Abomination to fight in aid of the Templars. When they saw her, however, accompanied as she was by the Champion and her fellow traitors, the Templars turned on Aveline instead of continuing to direct their attacks towards the Abomination. While she drew the Templars away from the arch that led into the square, Varric ran forward and quickly mounted a staircase that led to a small, rundown residence. From this vantage point, he could see the others and offer assistance where it was necessary. Aveline engaged two Templars at once, moving with swift ferocity, while Hawke and Fenris came forward to address the threat of the Abomination. Further back, still lingering just beyond the arch, Sebastain and Merrill attempted to eliminate a wave of shades that swept in from deeper in Lowtown. Varric began picking off the shades, leaving them writhing and howling, as the Abomination fell to the ground, cut apart by Fenris’ blade. The moment the Abomination was cut in two, the blazing form of a rage demon erupted from the ground just behind Hawke. Catching the look of warning on Fenris’ face, she turned quickly, engulfing the demon in a blast of ice in almost the same moment that Fenris brought down his sword upon it, shattering its brittle body. When he turned back to face her, Hawke found that she was smiling and then, realizing that she had done so, she darted away from Fenris towards the massing shades that had flooded into the square. Fenris did not follow after her, turning instead to help Aveline with a Templar that seemed to be giving her particular trouble.

Hawke let the shades cluster around her, lurching against her and causing bursts of pain as their hard bodies collided with her. They were not clever beasts, swarming easily whenever there was power that drew their attention, and it was not long before the majority of them were clustered around Hawke. She smiled, closing her eyes, and emitting a burst of energy that made them fall back slightly, swaying and immobile with the shock of her power. While they remained still, stunned and still encircling her, Hawke raised her staff and, as she raised it into the air, flames rose from the ground in a ring around her. The flames continued to roar, obscuring her entirely from sight, as the remaining Templars fell the ground. The shades, the final threat that remained in the small square, were trapped within the fire, their shells cracking under the heat as their bodies fell to pieces.

Only when all the shades were definitively dead did Hawke allow the wall of fire she had erected to dissipate. It fell away, leaving scorched markings on stones. She stood at the center of the blackened ring, her robes smoking slightly around the hem where the heat had, apparently, made them catch fire. Her skin, Fenris saw, shone with perspiration as she lifted her hands and, walking towards the others, began to unbraid her hair. The braid had largely come undone already and it was clear from the blackened ends, that it had almost caught fire. When she drew up beside Aveline and Fenris, her swift fingers danced over her hair, weaving it back into a braid. Fenris watched her quick fingers as she bound her hair with a thin leather tie. “You’re all alright?” she asked, addressing everyone but looking only at Fenris. He nodded and, with a curt nod, she looked towards the body of the Abomination. “We should keep moving then,” she said, “before more mages resort to this.”

Moving through Lowtown, however, was proving difficult. The street were strewn with wreckage and many of the side roads were closed off by residents who had shut the gates, trying to fend off the mayhem that was sweeping through the city. Perhaps that was wise, considering that there seemed to be no end of demons and Abominations roving through the streets. As they passed into the lower reaches of the district, drawing close to the docks, they came across a huge hoard of Abominations, all of them crowded in reverence around the nubile form a desire demon. The demon, catching sight of the interlopers, sent her small army charging towards them. Instantaneously, Hawke and Merrill brought down storms of magic on the gathered Abominations. The archers, flanking the mages, sent volleys of arrows towards the towering, misshapen beasts while Aveline fought back those that tried violently to reach the ranged fighters. Fenris, however, moved forward, racing beyond the others and towards the desire demon. Seeing him advancing on his own, Hawke cut through the crowding Abominations until she reached Fenris’ side.

The desire demon called its worshippers to its side, summoning them to intercept Fenris and Hawke. The Abominations were plentiful, their numbers great enough for a herd to occupy Aveline, Sebastian, and Merrill, while a number of them fell back towards the demon to keep Fenris and Hawke diverted. Driven close together by the surging monsters, Fenris and Hawke stood almost back to back while they fought back the droves that closed in around them, roaring and lashing out with the razor claws that tipped their long arms. Fenris felt Hawke’s warmth as her body, jostled by an Abomination, fell back against him. He turned, lunging for the creature that had hit her, and heard the desire demon’s lilting laugh rising up even over the sound of combat. It was odd—a close, almost intimate sound almost as if it were whispering directly into his ear. He could feel the demon’s voice and even its breath within his mind, his body flooding with a chill across his skin even as he felt warmth welling up within him. Blinking, he tried to resist the fogging of his mind, but even so, he was just barely able to muster enough concentration to sunder an Abomination’s head from its deformed body. There was a haze across his vision and, though he tried to focus his eyes and his thoughts, he could still hear the demon whispering.

“I see what you want,” it cooed, a female voice sweet within his ear. He staggered to the side, glancing towards the demon as its body rose up into the air, chest heaving out. “A warm bed, balmy summer nights, bodies writhing together between cool sheets,” it went on, its voice almost turning the words into music. Fenris shook his head, trying to remove himself from the daze, but, just as he was about to summon the strength to look away, the demon lifted its fingers, a thick swath of mist extending between its palms. Most of the Abominations had fallen or there was a good chance Fenris might well have been mauled by one of them while his eyes were helplessly drawn to the images that seemed to dance within the mist. The images were as much in his mind as they were on the churning depths of the mist and Fenris felt the awareness of them pulse within his body. He saw himself in the demon’s mist, laying bare across a large bed with his head resting in Hawke’s lap. She was seated, every bit as naked as he, as she wrapped her arms fondly around him, one of her delicate hands playing through his hair while the other ran over his arms. It was just an image, he knew, nothing more than an illusion, but he could almost feel her light caresses as the demon let the scene play out before him. When the vision of Hawke spoke, her voice echoed in his ears just as the demon’s had. “ _The children have gone outside to play,_ " her voice murmured, gentle and warm and filling him with comfort. “ _Hold me._ ” Her body fell back and his rose above her and Fenris felt the warmth of the scene. He was almost lost in it, when the demon suddenly cried out in a high, shrieking scream as its body lit with blossoming fire that spread over its body. Fenris jerked from his delusion, the cry returning him to a state of clarity, as he looked over at Hawke. Beneath the steaks of blood on her face, he could see that she was blushing brilliantly, though her eyes were filled with fury. When the fire died on the demon’s skin, Hawke formed a crushing prison around it. Fenris watched the demon convulsing from the pain and sneered, hating himself for having been weak enough to nearly become ensnared by that creature’s grotesque visions. Charging forward, he drove the point of his sword through the demon’s torso and yanking it to the side, nearly severing the top half of its body from the lower portion. The demon was still caged within Hawke’s energy when Fenris turned, surveying the scene. The Abominations throughout the field of battle had fallen and Aveline, Sebastian, Varric, and Merrill still lingered far off, panting and gathering their breath. It was only Hawke beside him now and she was silent, bowing her head and still flushed with color.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, unable to look at him. “You—you shouldn’t have had to see that. I… I'm really very sorry.” Fenris furrowed his brow, trying to determine what it was that was compelling her to apologize for something that was not her doing, when he realized suddenly that she thought that the vision the demon had showed had been for her. Perhaps it had been, but it had so closely approximated what he had once hoped for that he had thought that the illusion had been formed for him. Perhaps it had been created for both of them, each of their private desires tending towards the same point. That thought made Fenris feel vaguely ill, as though his entrails were twisting. Oddly, it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. “Desire demons… they show you things that you shouldn’t want,” Hawke whispered, her eyes flicking up to Fenris’ face at last. “Impossible things. I… you shouldn’t have had to see that.”

Fenris tilted his head slightly to the side, watching her expression curiously. “Impossible?” he ventured, his voice low. He could see that the question flustered her, deepening her blush and rendering her incapable of holding his gaze for a moment longer. There was something gratifying in making her shift uncomfortably and blush at his words. It was a strange sort of power to have over another person.

“We should move on,” she said, wheeling around to race off towards the others instead of remaining with him. The corner of his lips twitched convulsively upwards as he watched her fleeing from him. Shaking his head, he trailed after her, rejoining her other companions.

Though that was not the last of the trouble they ran into as they made their way towards the docks, the streets did seem to be quieting as they made their way towards the shore. As they descended a short staircase that delineated the boundary between Lowtown and the docks, Hawke saw the reason for the growing quiet. The ground was strewn with bodies. The citizens she had seen racing through the streets earlier, their meager luggage clutched in their hands and their minds bent on exodus, had made it as far as the docks before being slaughtered. Cautiously, uncertain of what had led to death of this scale, Hawke moved down the stairs, weaving among the corpses. These were the citizens of the city of which she was meant to be Champion. They lay at her feet, casualties of a war that she had not managed to prevent. Casualties that might have been avoided if she had only noticed what Anders was doing and put a stop to it before it was too late. Hawke felt that old, desperate draw to move close to Fenris. The instinct overtook her before she was aware of it and then, quite suddenly, she discovered that she was pressing against his side. The contact ran through her like an electric shock and, horrified with herself for perhaps the thousandth time that day, she leapt away from him, almost tripping over several corpses as she did so. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, looking over at Fenris and finding that he was staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. Before he could say anything in response to her, however, Hawke was knocked back to the ground as a powerful bolt of energy hit her squarely in the chest.

The moment that she regained her footing, Hawke saw that it was a blood mage who had attacked her, feeding off of the energy and blood of the corpses that were littered throughout the docks. The mage lifted her hands into the air, calling forth a cadre of shades that moved swiftly towards Hawke’s companions. Her face veiled by shadow, the blood mage’s body began to swell with a power that Hawke could sense and, well aware of the grievous harm that such mages could inflict with a single assault, Hawke swiftly knocked back her opponent with a block of stone. Though the blood mage called out with pain and surprise, but it only slowed her for a moment. The blood of the scattered corpses soon soared through the air, enveloping Hawke in a cloud of magic that tore at her skin, opening gaping wounds which only served to power the blood mage further. Hawke’s body immobilized and contorting helplessly, she watched in horror as she realized that the blood mage was the least of the dangers facing her companions. From the shadows, its body towering and laden with sharp, jutting spikes, emerged the monstrous form of a pride demon.

Hawke gasped as the blood mage’s spell finally released her. She was panting, her body still gushing blood even though the magic no longer sliced away at her flesh. Hissing from pain, Hawke looked wildly around, trying madly to determine which of the myriad threats she ought to address first. Shades swarmed around Aveline and Merrill while Sebastian and Varric’s arrows seemed to do nothing to thin their great numbers. At the periphery of the massing shades, the blood mage had shielded herself with a barrier, protecting herself from Fenris as he lunged for her. Hawke looked back towards the demon that was lumbering forth from the shadow, the ground shaking beneath its every step. Rushing forward, trying to ignore the pain of her injuries, Hawke sent a circuit of lightning through the shades, trying to draw their attention away from the others. “Aveline!” she cried. “I’ll deal with the shades, the rest of you get to the demon!”

Within the mass of shades, Hawke was constantly whirling, fighting back fresh attacks, and crying out in pain whenever one of the shades made harsh, brutal contact with one of the wounds that the blood mage had opened on her body. It was too much and, at last, Hawke was forced to heal herself, expending some of her much needed mana and rendering herself all but incapable of continuing to fight back the shades. Their numbers never seemed to decrease and, panting, Hawke tried to fight through them, running from them as they lurched after her, their mere presence exhausting and depleting her. There was no way that she would be able to put off using lyrium, she realized, as she used the last trace of her energy to trap a contingent of the shades within a small glacier. The pride demon seemed to be fighting on without faltering and, though the blood mage no longer seemed to be calling forth new shades, she was still sending powerful hexes towards Hawke’s allies as they attempted to take down the demon. Fumbling through the small pouch that she wore around her waist, Hawke removed a small vial of blue liquid and quickly poured it down her throat. She felt the relief that the potion brought her as well as the euphoric madness that made the fight seem somehow less impossible. This manic, lyrium-induced confidence, however, was soon tempered by reality. Just as she had cleared the area around her of shades, she saw a number of them moving in towards Fenris and Aveline, who were continuing to hack madly away at the pride demon.

She saw blue-white energy welling in the demon’s clawed hands and realized too late that the others had not seen what the demon was doing. The brilliant energy of the demon’s magic pooled around its feet, catching Aveline and Fenris within it as the shades rushed towards them. Hawke raced forward, trying to fight back the shades while Fenris and Aveline tried to fight their way away from the demon and the drag of its blinding magic. The pull proved irresistible and, just as the two warriors neared the brink of the spell, they found it impossible to move any further. Hawke knew that she could not go any nearer, lest she be caught as well, but still she sent spells ceaselessly towards the shades, doing all she could to keep them from bombarding Fenris and Aveline while they were immobile at the demon’s feet.

Fenris could see her through the light that held him, paralyzing him as Hawke called out his name. He could feel himself weakening, his head light and his muscles throbbing as the spell pulled at him brutally. The ache was becoming overpowering, making his consciousness blur, when he felt a sudden warmth flooding over him. He saw Hawke, white light pouring from her and drifting through the air, swirling around him and dripping restorative energy over him. His vision was becoming clear again and it was then that he saw that Hawke was holding her own side, fresh blood pouring over her hand as she swayed in place, her teeth gritting together.

Hawke had been distracted, her body buzzing with the recent dose of lyrium, as she focused all her energies on preventing the shades from massing around Fenris while he was incapable of fighting back. She had been consumed with this, her eyes turned towards the shades and the pride demon, and she’d forgotten entirely about the blood mage. While Hawke’s attention had been diverted, the mage had materialized behind her, slashing the razor point of her staff against Hawke’s side and opening a gaping wound. Hawke had fought back but the blood mage had flashed out of sight, teleporting far from Hawke, leaving the pride demon between them. Her eyes searching for the blood mage, Hawke had seen Fenris’ face. She saw he was struggling, near to losing consciousness. She had healed him then. It seemed to be the thing to do.

When the draining circle of the Pride demon’s power lost some of its strength, Fenris was able to rush forward. Hawke was staggering back and forth, trying to stay on her feet, and staring at him with unfocused eyes as he stood before her. “You’re alright?” she gasped, still clutching at her side.

“What are you thinking?” he hissed. “Heal yourself!”

“Oh, right,” she said, a little light-headed and still swaying unsteadily.

As Hawke began to heal herself, Fenris saw the mage who was attacking them standing not far off. Hawke was occupied, unable to defend herself then and seemingly unaware of anything aside from stitching herself together again. Fenris, making sure that he sighed grudgingly, ran forward to eliminate the blood mage before she could attack again. The weight of his body slamming against the mage’s sent her body flying backwards, her head smashing into one of the spikes that protruded from the walls that lined the docks. The rusty, jagged metal collided with her temple, its point driving up through her skull. Fenris was fairly certain that the blow was enough to kill the mage, and yet he moved forward once more, yanking the body up from the spikes before bashing is down again. When he was sure that the blood mage was dead, he turned quickly, moving quickly past Hawke and back to the pride demon.

Their efforts were focused now, all working as a united force. It was not much longer until the demon fell, its enormous body thundering to the ground. Their bodies were sore and their breathing was rough when all of their enemies were felled. Hawke had only used the smallest possible amount of her mana to heal herself and the wound was still bleeding slightly as she leaned back against the base of a large statue, closing her eyes and healing the remainder of her injury. Fenris watched her, his face hard as he did so. It was astonishing how like a corpse she looked when her eyes were closed and her body was still. Her cheeks were so hollow, stretched like the skin of a drum over her bone. Her eyes were set deep back in her skull, surrounded by purpled shadows. He remembered her when he had first known her—not just when she had come to Tevinter, but when they had first met in Kirkwall. She was unrecognizable and he was not entirely sure that the change was for the worse. Hawke opened her eyes, her eyes meeting his; Fenris looked away quickly, as if he had been watching her accidentally.

She stepped away from the statue’s base, standing straight and coming towards the others. “This is getting out of hand,” she murmured, glancing around the wreckage of the docks.

“Agreed,” said Aveline darkly. “This city is being torn apart.”

“At this rate, I worry what will happen to the Veil. With this many demons, this much death…. I can feel it thinning. Kirkwall may already be lost.” She shook her head, her lips almost twisting into a smile. “Though I suppose standing around and talking about it won’t make much of a difference, will it?” Sighing, she led them away from the carnage that surrounded them.

Haggard though they were, they made their way down the pier to the several small ferry boats that were often used to transport Templars to and from the Gallows. The ferrymen were gone now, either dead or frightened off, but the boats were not so large or complex that they would be unmanageable. As her comrades began to climb shakily into a single small boat, Hawke turned her eyes towards the Gallows. Even from this distance, she could see signs of the chaos that was erupting there. Smoke rose into the air and, across the water, she heard the cries of mages rallying together in preparation for the fight to come. Hawke noticed now, her eyes lifting towards the sky, that the afternoon had worn away. The sky was a dusky lavender hue now, the white orb of the moon just rising above the walls of the Gallows and sending a trail of its light glittering across the broken surface of the water.

It seemed impossible that her world could have changed so much between dawn and nightfall. Only that morning, she had found Fenris once more, touched his hair, felt his warmth. She’d seen him again and she would have sworn, in that moment, that that was the most monumental moment she would experience that day. Just to touch his hair had been everything to her then. Now she stood, drenched in her lover’s blood, looking out over a city on the brink of collapse. And Fenris was there. He was there, crawling into a boat and prepared to continue fighting alongside her. Perhaps that was the most shocking revelation of the day. More shocking even than the peaking of the conflict between the mages and the Templars. That, at least, had been threatening to come to a head for years. Though she never would have thought that it would happen like this, she had always known that Kirkwall’s mages would rebel eventually. She never could have guessed that Fenris would be alongside her when that time came. It made no sense for him to risk his life in this.

Perhaps she should have just allowed Meredith to annul the Circle. After all that had happened that day, it seemed inevitable that Kirkwall’s mages would be lost in one way or another. But she had to hold on to the faint, impossible hope that, perhaps, if she could reach Orsino and Meredith, she could make them understand what this war would cost the city. Already, too many had died for what Anders had done. Hopefully, she could make them see reason. Yet, Hawke had not failed to notice that Meredith seemed to be fraying. She did not seem willing to see reason in the wake of the Chantry explosion and there was not the slightest chance that Orsino would submit to having his mages wrangled at this point. If Elthina had still been alive, then it would have all turned out so differently. If Anders hadn’t turned all hope for Kirkwall into a smoldering heap of ashes. If he had just… no. There was no use thinking about that. Hawke sighed and turned back to her companions, joining them in the ferry.

The water was not overly rough and the air was cool as the oars propelled their small vessel towards the Gallows. Neither Hawke nor Fenris joined in the rowing, but each was seated with shoulders hunched forward and their heads bowed. Though Varric and Sebastian were pressing in on either side of him, Fenris found that he was more aware of Hawke’s presence than either of theirs. Even though he only allowed himself to stare down at the tips of her toes, his mind held a perfect image of her. He imagined the arch of her spine as she slumped forward, resting her elbows on her knees. He imagined the way her braid must fall over her shoulder, swaying back and forth with the slight movements of the boat. He was surprised that she was so much in his mind, though it should not have surprised him in the least; he had thought of little else for months. But to be fighting with her for these mages was another thing altogether, a shock far greater than merely thinking of her. There was, he thought, the very real possibility that he had somehow gone insane. There was no reason that he should fight for her. He knew there was no reason in it, but his mind kept returning to what the desire demon has shown them. It had not been either his or hers, but a shared yearning between the both of them. For, though she said she wanted to die and though she said he should leave her, she wanted him. He knew that now. She loved him after all. Of course, that made no difference. She’d been right in saying that she would never be able to repair what she had done. She had been correct in telling him that he should kill her. But she’d been wrong in saying that she was the same as the others. She didn’t want to own him, or possess him—she wanted to love him. And that was something he had never expected of anyone. He wasn’t quite sure yet that he wanted her to live, but the thought of her dying on the battlefield was too much to bear. He could not allow that to happen. Until he had decided what to do with her, he had to remain at her side. Perhaps when the battle was done, he could kill her. Perhaps that was the only course of action that would please them both—though he had the feeling that it would please her more than him.

“Thank you,” he heard her say suddenly, drawing his eyes up towards her face. He wondered how long she had been staring at him and if his expression had given away any of what he’d been thinking.

“What?” he replied, scowling at her as if she had disturbed his thoughts.

She seemed unshaken by his curt attitude; she expected it, no doubt. “Thank you,” she repeated gently, her voice barely loud enough to be heard over the churning of the water. “You don’t have to do any of this, but… thank you.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “It’s no trouble,” he growled, making himself look down again instead of continuing to stare into her soft eyes. He wasn’t quite sure if she was trying to be kind, or if she was trying to torment him. Either way, he hadn’t long to ruminate on the matter before they reached the Gallows.

Their arrival came at an opportune time, it seemed. The Templars were closing in on the mages, having been called into action already by their Knight-Commander. Orsino was doing his best to shepherd the mages to safety, but it was clear from the flames that flared around the port that there had already been strife and loss of life in the time preceding Hawke’s arrival.

As soon as she disembarked from the ferry, she was rushing towards the First Enchanter, ready to offer her aid against the advancing Templars. His relief was visible as Hawke reached his side, her allies trailing along at her heels. “Champion!” he sighed, his voice concealing his relief no better than his expression. “You survived, thank the Maker! We must—”

But Hawke did not have the opportunity to discover what it was exactly that it was imperative that they do. The words were still in Orsino’s throat when he was interrupted by Meredith, who came towards them with a number of Templars at her beckoning. “And here you are,” she sneered, her eyes flickering between Hawke and Orsino, though her gaze lingered on the First Enchanter.

“Let us speak, Meredith,” he said, making clear efforts to keep himself from shouting at her. “Before this battle destroys the city you claim to protect.”

His overtures had no effect on her. “I will entertain a surrender, nothing more,” she said, waving her hand dismissively and looking him with deep condescension. “Speak if you have something to say.”

“Revoke the Right of Annulment, Meredith,” Orsino said firmly, his eyes narrowing. “Before this goes too far. Imprison us if you must, search the Tower, I will even help you. But do not kill us all for an act we did not commit.” Hawke watched Orsino, calm, composed and speaking reasonably. But Meredith’s expression remained set as she looked upon him. It was clear enough that she was refusing to be swayed and Hawke could feel her own trepidation growing as she looked between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter.

“The Grand Cleric is dead, killed by a mage,” hissed Meredith, her expression cold as she glared at Orsino. Watching them, hearing their words and seeing their expressions, Hawke tightened her fingers on her staff, wondering how long it would be before the mounting tension between them gave way to outright combat. “The people will demand retribution and I will give it to them.” Meredith added, holding her head high and looking over her opponents imperiously. “Your offer is commendable, Orsino, but it comes too late.”

Hawke stepped forward suddenly, no longer able to allow Meredith and Orsino to carry on with their blatant hostility while the city was so close to destruction. “It’s not too late,” she interjected, her voice stronger than she felt. “If you and Orsino can cooperate, showing yourselves to be united, then the people of Kirkwall will follow after. If you continue as you are now, then the city will lie in ruins before morning comes.”

Meredith’s bright, flashing eyes left Orsino, landing on Hawke and examining her for a long moment. “I’m disappointed in you, Champion,” Meredith said, her tone more than conveying the sheer depths of her disapproval. It was clear, however, that she had not truly expected much more of a Fereldan apostate. “So be it.” Meredith added darkly, her teeth almost bared as she looked at Hawke. “You will share the Circle’s fate.”

Hawke clenched her jaw, but said nothing further. She had put her best effort into settling this matter and, whatever the night might bring, she could at least comfort herself with the knowledge that she had tried. All she could do was try. And that would never be enough. Still, it was all she had left.

Orsino, like Hawke, seemed to have finally grasped the certainty of warring against Meredith and Hawke could see from his eyes that he was not daunted by the prospect. “So what is it to be, Meredith?” he said snidely, taking a step nearer to her. “Do we fight here?”

Even in her annoyance she was composed, looking sternly down at the First Enchanter but not going far enough to draw her sword. “Go,” she said, her voice ominous but not yet openly hostile. “Prepare your people. The rest of the Order is already crossing the harbor. ” She turned from them, leaving them as she led her Templars away and left Orsino with Hawke and her companions. Orsino stared after her, murmuring bitterly in a voice too low for Hawke to hear.

Hawke walked up beside Orsino. “What now?” she murmured, her muscles tense and a headache still hammering at her temples.

He sighed. “You will need to give orders to your companions,” he told her. “And I will do the same for my people.”

Hawke nodded, looking back towards the others. “Right,” she murmured. She approached them hesitantly, unsure of what it was that she was meant to say. She had never been much for giving orders, having surrounded herself with competent people who knew well enough what to do without being told. And yet, this time, she felt obliged to say something. They had gone into difficult battles before, but Hawke felt that there was something different about this. It felt as if something were ending. “So… it looks like we’ll be fighting soon,” she began, surveying them with a sweep of her eyes as they looked back at her. “And… I’ll understand if any of you want to leave. The battle ahead may be dangerous and… and I can’t say for certain that we’ll all make it through. I have fight,” she said slowly. “The people of Kirkwall have named me as their Champion and it’s time that I behaved like one. This is my city and I have to fight for it.”

“This is my city as well,” said Aveline. “I will fight with you and bring what order we can to this chaos.”

“And I’m with you as always, Hawke,” added Varric, even managing to smile.

“And of course I’ll fight with you,” Merrill offered, her face filled with determination and her lips curved with a hint of a smile. “I believe in what we’re doing here. The mages of Kirkwall depend on us.”

Sebastian nodded. “And you’ve sacrificed a great deal, Hawke, to make amends for the crimes that have been committed against the Chantry.” He looked at her solemnly, at the blood that had stained her robes. “I cannot abandon you now.”

Fenris thought that they very likely expected him to say something, offering his support and determination as well. But he said nothing, choosing instead to look down at his feet. Hawke watched him for a moment, opening her mouth to assure him that he was free to go, but she reminded herself that he did know that already. She wasn’t keeping him here, he had chosen to stay. When it was over, when she had done her duty, she could release him then. Finally and completely and with whatever means were necessary.

Hawke smiled softly, nodding to them. “Well, alright. I suppose we fight together, then. As one.” Eyes flitting to the gate, where she heard the Templars pounding for entry, she swallowed. “We fight for Kirkwall,” she went on, looking back at her companions. “This is our home. These are our people. And we fight to prevent this war from spreading. And I… I’m so grateful that you’ve chosen to stand with me.” She opened her mouth, trying to say more, but only a small cracking sound came from her throat. Taking a shuddering breath, she looked at the ground.

Orsino shouted out before she could continue speaking. “Champion! It is beginning!” he called. She was grateful that she would not be allowed to get choked up with good-byes; she could already feel herself near tears and the strain of remaining composed was robbing her of the strength that she so desperately needed for the fight to come. Nodding to Orsino, she allowed herself one last look at her companions before turning and striding towards the bridge where the Templars had broken through the gates, already coming towards the gathered mages with their weapons drawn.

Ahead of her, though she moved swiftly forward, there was already bloodshed where the Templars and mages came crashing together. Fire tore through the Order while swords tore through the flesh of mages. Hawke fought beside Circle mages that she had never seen before. She knew that they must have spent all their lives in confinement. Those that fell, spilling their blood at the feet of the Templars, would never see the world. They would never feel the rain on their skin. There was no reason to it—no reason why some should fall and why others lived to fight. All of the mages were untried, never offered opportunities to test themselves in combat before that moment. And yet some lived while others were cut down, their own blood foaming on their lips as they stared wonderingly up at the blackening sky.

The encroaching Templars were defeated swiftly, but not without losses on both sides. When calm began to pervade the courtyard and stretch over the bridge where she had fought with the others, Hawke stared at the bodies of the mages, wondering if their mothers would ever know what had become of them or if their families even cared after all these years of separation. When Hawke lifted her eyes, she saw that Orsino’s grave expression mirrored her own.

“Look at it all,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Why don’t they just drown us as infants? Why wait. Why give us the illusion of hope?” His voice was bitter, his eyes shadowed as he gazed on the bodies that were strewn across the bridge.

Hawke had never seen such hostility on Orsino’s face, even in the moments when he and Meredith were engaged in heated arguments. She felt her heart whirring, from the fight as well as from a growing sense of dread. “We have to keep moving, First Enchanter,” Hawke said, coming forward from the bridge, taking care not to tread on the still-warm bodies of the slain. “More Templars are coming.”

He lifted his eyes to her, looking away from the bodies at last, but what she saw in his gaze frightened her. “I refuse to keep running,” he hissed. “I won’t wait for Meredith to kill me.” She saw his fingers tightening on his staff.

“This isn’t helping,” Hawke replied sternly, hoping that the strength of her voice and her expression would shake him from his melancholia long enough for her to get him out of the immediate range of Meredith’s men. “We have to go.”

“I am tired of helping, as well,” he spat in response to her advisories. When he continued, he spoke as if to himself, his voice low and quick while his eyes darted rapidly over the fallen bodies that were heaped around him. “Quentin’s research was too evil, too dangerous, so I put it aside, but I see now that there is no other way,” he murmured quickly. Hawke felt her body freeze, her eyes widening. Quentin was a name with which she was all too familiar and the mention of it from Orsino’s lips filled her with a cold dread that swept through her limbs, leaving her numb.

“First Enchanter?” she breathed, unable to say anything further and unable to fully comprehend what she had just heard. The name Quentin was still pulsing in her mind. Helpless to fight back the memories that she had tried so fervently to suppress, Hawke remembered her mother lurching towards her, mangled and monstrous and kept alive only through the most foul magics. She remembered the notes and slips of paper scattered about the hovel where Quentin had built his corpse bride. She remembered one of the notes. From ‘O’. Her blood was pounding almost deafeningly in her ears as she stared at the First Enchanter with disbelief.

“Meredith expects blood magic? Then I will give it to her.” Hawke saw the blade of his knife too late and watched the First Enchanter slash open his wrist. “Maker help us all,” he whispered as the blood began to flow freely over his skin.

Droplets of blood danced in the air, drifting around Orsino’s body as bright flecks of light began to flicker like fireflies around him. His arms were raised, his head tilted back and his wide eyes closed as his body lifted weightlessly, borne aloft by the magic he summoned to him. Hawke felt the power emanating from him, radiating with such strength that it was almost intoxicating. She was helpless at first, immobile as she watched the First Enchanter delving into the forbidden arts that he preached against for so long. The light and blood swirled around him, entrancing and almost beautiful to behold. It was a moment before Hawke realized the true darkness of the magic he had resorted to. It was not ordinary blood magic, but something far more sinister.

The bodies of the fallen mages, killed on the blades of Templars only moments before, were being pulled into motion. Hawke thought, at first, as she saw the corpses begin to shift on the ground, that Orsino was reanimating them to fight for him once more. That would have been far preferable to what he actually had planned for his fallen charges. Their bodies dragged, limp and lifeless, across the stone, being carried by unseen force towards where Orsino stood. They were lifted to his body, seeming to wrap themselves around him in a tight embrace. Hawke watched as the bodies draped their arms over Orsino’s shoulders and she watched as their flesh began to fuse with his.

It was like nothing she had ever witnessed. Though she had seen countless abominations transforming, none had ever been so grotesque. He was growing quickly, the power and the flesh of the fallen mages drawing into him and becoming one with his body. Hawke shouted, when she had the sense to do so, for Varric and Sebastian to begin shooting at Orsino before his transformation could complete. Their arrows soared through the air towards the mutating flesh of the First Enchanter, but the attack seemed to have no effect on him then. As his body continued to grow and change before them, the arrows absorbed into the roiling masses of his form.

Hawke and her companions were not alone in staring up at the final form Orsino took. More Templars had come over the bridge, sent, no doubt, to make further attempts on the lives of the mages and all who fought with them. But the Templars did not raise their swords against Hawke and her allies then. They turned their eyes to the horrid creature that towered before them, its grotesque body unrecognizable as the elf it had once been. It was more than even a seasoned Templar would be prepared for; it was more than any of them had expected to face. It was not only the sight of the warped, disfigured beast, but also the smell. The entrails of the fallen mages had been rendered into the creature’s flesh and, tainted with dark magic, they sent their putrid stench overpoweringly through the night air.

In spite of his fearsome appearance, and the wretched smell that made each inhalation burn, Orsino’s transformed body was slow and lumbering. He hadn’t the speed or the agility to adequately defend his massive form from the sudden onslaught of blades that came slashing against his newly assembled body. The Templars fought alongside Hawke and her companions now, joining together against the more repulsive foe. Varric and Sebastian continually punctured Orsino’s moldering skin with a ceaseless barrage of arrows while Merrill and Hawke, positioning themselves as far as they could from the center of the fray, aided with their spells. Frost spread over Orsino’s graying flesh, slowly the broad movements of his arms. He was irate, it seemed, as he broke free of the ice, slamming his gargantuan fists down to ground as he lurched back into action. The strike of his hands was heavy and blunt, the impact coming down little more than a foot from where Fenris stood. Hawke heard herself scream out his name and felt an almost sickening surge of relief when she saw that he had been undamaged by the strike. Orsino’s fists had, however, flattened several Templars, who now lay in pieces on the ground.

It seemed they were doing well, in spite of the loss of the Templars who had fought alongside them. Orsino was slowing still more, his massive body staggering slightly above his spindly legs. He might have fallen soon, if he were a creature like any other Hawke had faced. But there was power in that body with which she was not familiar. The First Enchanter had commanded great magic, even in his elven form, and the distortion of his body had not robbed him entirely of his gifts. Hawke felt the surge of magic around her before she saw bones lifting from the ground, forming skeletons that came to Orsino’s aid. Hawke turned, rushing towards one of the skeletons, when she heard Aveline cry out in horror.

There was blood everywhere, showering over Aveline and Fenris and raining heavily down from Orsino’s body. Hawke thought, at first that they had slain him. His body, heavy and seeming lifeless, fell, sending tremors over the ground where they stood. As the blood settled, however, and Hawke was able to process the scene, she realized that Orsino’s head was still mobile though his body was not. The head moved quickly now, part of the spinal column dragging behind it as it lunged for Aveline. The warrior dodged the attack, but the head was more nimble now that it was detached from the mass of Orsino’s body.

The shock of the geyser of blood and the head’s first assaults passed quickly enough, and Aveline and Fenris charged after it, bearing down upon it while Hawke turned back to the skeletons that surrounded them. The blood from Orsino’s motionless body formed a slick glaze over the ground and filled the air with a still more powerful reek of decay. Hawke gasped, trying not to breathe too deeply, as she fled from the skeletons that closed in around her.

With each animated pile of bones that fell, Hawke noticed a rush of magic returning to where Orsino’s body lay. She noticed too that, while the head moved swiftly and erratically, it never seemed to move too far from where heap of flesh at the center of the pooling blood. She called out, but too late, as the head hurled itself back towards the twitching body, shoving its ungainly spinal column back into the body and reviving the entirety of Orsino’s form. Hawke cursed loudly as the creature rose once more from the ground, stomping forward towards Fenris and Aveline as they fell back. While they ran, Orsino leapt into the air, coming down once more with such a thunderous quake that both warrior fell to the ground. Hawke breathed deeply now, in spite of the stench that surrounded her, and found the strength to hurl debilitating bolts of lightning towards the creature. It reared back, raising its club-like arms into the air, before bashing them down once more, narrowing missing Aveline. Fenris had risen from the ground and, as Hawke froze Orsino solid as ice, Fenris propelled his own body into the air towards the beast. Fenris clutched onto Orsino’s body, balancing himself by planting his feet squarely on Orsino’s shoulders while holding fast to one of the odd, stunted arms that shot out from near the creature’s mouth. Flaring with the brilliant light of his lyrium, Fenris plunged his free hand through Orsino’s throat, reaching through to the spine and breaking it off in his hand. The head detached once more, falling back from the body and towards the ground as Hawke rushed towards it. She moved swiftly, engulfing the head in a whirlwind of fire before Orsino’s body had even crashed to the ground. The skin was nearly burnt entirely away from the bone as Hawke moved towards it, stomping down repeatedly on the charred skull until she heard breaking bone.

“I can’t believe I trusted him!” she snarled, her voice ragged. “What hope did Kirkwall’s mages have with him as their leader?” She kicked his skull viciously, sending it sailing into a low wall. Only then did she stand still, gazing down at blood that still coated the paving stones.

Varric watched her with as much concern as he was willing to show. “We should keep moving Hawke,” he said evenly, attempting to draw her attention back to the present.

She ignored his words, wheeling around to face him and the others. “He _knew_ what Quentin was doing, didn’t he? He knew and he didn’t do anything! My mother died because he couldn’t keep his mages under control.”

While she spoke, while she paced unsteadily, Fenris watched her. He had not been aware of how her mother had died; he wondered if he had ever known. He watched her as she lifted her hands, hiding her face as she took several deep, steadying breaths. Fenris felt the strange urge to approach her, to attempt to offer her some comfort while she was so visibly distressed. It was an urge he resisted while she fought to control herself.

When she was certain that her anger wouldn’t force her to cry, Hawke lowered her hands away from her face. “Maybe mages are cursed,” she said roughly. “But the die has been cast, hasn’t it?” she added bitterly, letting out a mirthless little laugh and looking towards the Templar Hall that loomed before them. “Let’s go.”


	32. Alea Iacta Est (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of The Last Straw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! I had to purge a lot of the stuff from this chapter which, oddly, takes longer than you might expect.
> 
> As I'm sure you've guessed, there are more spoilers from The Last Straw in here. Again, I have reserved the right to change some of the incidental details.

The Templar Hall had always made Hawke uneasy. Frankly, she had never been particularly fond of any portion of the Gallows, but the Templar Hall was especially unpleasant due to the great density of Templars that roamed its halls and slept beneath its roof. She had had to come there on occasion, to speak with Meredith or Orsino in their offices, but the experience had always made Hawke a trifle anxious. The history of the Gallows still hung heavily in the stones of the building, the legacy of slavery and oppression seeming to cling to everything. Every walk and every room within the Gallows seemed to be lined with the dully shining statues of slaves, their bodies thin and wracked with pain and their faces hidden in their hands. Hawke loathed these statues, she loathed the magisters who had erected them, and she loathed each and every viscount of Kirkwall who had never ordered that these reminders of the Tevinter rule be torn down. As they entered the Templar Hall, greeted by rows of columns that were adorned with those wretched statues, Hawke glanced back towards Fenris, but found that his expression was impassive. The room in which they found themselves was dark, lit only by the light of wreckage which burned along the walls. Grimacing, Hawke suspected that searching the Gallows for Meredith would likely be every bit is difficult as it had been to reach the Gallows in the first place.

She received confirmation of this suspicion after she had taken no more than a few steps forward. From the shadowy depths of the room, there was an explosion of shades which raced towards Hawke and the others. The relative darkness of the room was illuminated by the blazing flashes of Merrill and Hawke’s spells while the air filled with the clanging sounds of combat. The shades fell quickly enough, their hard shells torn to pieces by swords and their entrails punctured by arrows which drove down deep into their bodies. Swaying, roaring with unearthly agony, the shades fell, but they alone had not lingered within the darkness. The air rippled with heat as rage demons, their bodies bright and burning, burst forward towards the mages, drawn irresistibly towards their power. Though the day had been long and exceedingly exhausting, Fenris and Aveline still moved with great speed, blocking off the demons before they could reach Hawke or Merrill, who both fell back against the wall.

From where she stood, radiating a bitter chill, Hawke watched Fenris carefully, as much to make sure that he did not put himself in harm’s way as to experience the exquisite pain of observing him. He was beautiful when his jaw was set with determination and his eyes were bright, lit by something effulgent within him. She wished she had noticed that years ago, when her love for him could have meant something. When the rage demons had fallen, Fenris turned, meeting her eye, and Hawke realized that she had still been staring at him. Looking away, her eyes turning to a heap of Abominations that had already been dead when they arrived, Hawke cleared her throat. “We’re not the first ones to come through here,” she noted, pointing out the Abominations to the others. “It looks like someone has already been cleaning house.”

Aveline, wiping her blade clean, came forward and stood at Hawke’s side. “Templars?” she suggested.

Hawke nodded, walking towards the Abominations and stooping to inspect their bodies. “Seems like a likely explanation, but I don’t see any exterior wounds. You don’t think that it’s too much to hope that there might be a herd of uncorrupted mages roaming around here somewhere?”

Varric smiled wryly. “Uncorrupted mages? In _this_ city?”

“It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” Hawke replied, straightening her back and stepping over the fallen Abominations towards the door that lay past their bodies. “Well, we have to go this way if we’re ever going to find out what’s going on in the rest of the Gallows. If these Abominations were killed by allies, then hopefully we’ll come across them sooner rather than later. And if they were killed by enemies… well, then we’ll definitely come across them soon enough.” Placing her hand on the doorknob, she added, “You’re all ready to move on?”

Nodding their assent, the others followed after Hawke as she opened the door and then, abruptly, stopped short. There were more bodies in the adjoining room—several abominations scattered over the tiles with their arms outstretched and a desire demon sprawled among their bodies, her purple flesh unblemished even in death. In the corner, not far from where the demon and abominations lay slaughtered, stood Sandal. He was placid, his face lighting for a moment when he caught sight of Hawke, but otherwise without emotion. “Sandal?” said Hawke a bit breathlessly, drawing slowly towards the dwarf. “What are you doing here?”

He looked unharmed, his body free from even the smallest of scratches. When Hawke spoke to him, however, he merely cocked his head to the side and stared at her with wide eyes. “Sandal, how did you do this?” she asked, trying again to garner some explanation of the carnage.

“Enchantment.” he replied. His intonation gave Hawke no clue as to whether this response was a question or an answer.

From behind her, she heard Varric chuckle under his breath. “Just like in the Deep Roads,” Varric observed. “This dwarf could take down an army all on his own, but Maker be damned if he’ll ever tell us how he manages it.”

“Right,” said Hawke slowly, dragging out the word as she glanced around the room, seeing, much to her surprise, that even a pride demon had been felled by the taciturn dwarf. Furrowing her brow, she looked back at Sandal. With the same blank yet cheerful look in his face that was always there, he gazed up at her, seemingly entirely unaware of the oddity of their situation. With a sigh, Hawke gave up on discovering how it was that he was so able to defend himself. He may yet, however, yield some other information that was of value to her. “Sandal,” she began gently, looking into his eyes gravely, “is Bodahn with you? Or Orana?”

She spoke clearly, but he remained as silent and stoic as if she had said no words at all. Sighing heavily and clenching her fists with frustration, Hawke shook her head. Sandal may have just saved her a monstrous fight with a hoard of demons and Abominations, but she would have loved to run into someone a bit more loquacious in that moment. “Well, I suppose all I can do is hope that the others managed to get out of Hightown as well,” she murmured, fighting back the fluttering concern she felt within herself. She wondered if she ought to take Sandal with her, but then, it was probably safest for him to remain where he had already cleared away all threats. “You’ll be safe here, won’t you Sandal?” she asked him, as gently as she could.

Sandal smiled broadly, his blue eyes shining bright in the dim light of the corridor. “Enchantment!” he chirped happily.

Hawke sighed. “I suppose that’s a ‘yes’, then,” she said, turning back to the others and, with a shrug, making her way down the hall and away from Sandal.

It was fortunate that Hawke had been afforded the opportunity to traverse these hallways on previous occasions. She had no interest in exploring every cranny and small room that branched off the hallway when she knew that it was of far greater importance to discover where the Knight-Commander had gone. Meredith would not have secreted herself away in the barracks that housed young Templars, but would likely be in a large, central location from which she would be able to gather her men and issue orders. Where exactly that would be, Hawke did not know, but she could hazard a few guesses. There was a large open space, she knew, not far from Meredith’s office. That seemed as suitable a place as any to rally the Order.

Unfortunately, the first door that might have led to that central room was blocked off by, not only a large, iron gate, but several massive rafters that had fallen down from the ceiling during the initial clashes between mages and Templars that had clearly erupted in the Templar Hall. “We could try to clear all this away and get through the gate, but I think there’s another way,” Hawke told her companions as she looked at the blocked passage. “If we just head down this corridor a little further, there should be a door on the right.”

She exclaimed triumphantly as she came to the door that she had recalled and found that it had not been obstructed. As she reached for the doorknob, however, Aveline grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back. “Perhaps Fenris and I should go in first,” she told Hawke. “We’ve at least got armour instead of those flimsy robes of yours.”

Hawke was not terribly fond of the idea of sending Fenris into any unknown and potentially hazardous situation, but she did have to admit that Aveline had a point. Hawke’s robes—threadbare, stained, and rather badly burned—offered little in the way of protection. “Very well,” sighed Hawke, looking covertly at Fenris. “But be careful.”

Though Hawke had tried to be discreet, Fenris had noticed when she looked at him. Her concern for him was unnecessary, though it did cause him to experience an odd sort of twisting in the pit of his stomach. Bowing his head, he moved forward to stand beside Aveline as they entered the room together. The moment that they passed over the threshold, they caught sight of a line of Templar archers, led by a lieutenant who ordered them at once to fire upon the intruders. At once, Aveline lifted her shield to guard herself from the hail of arrows, but Fenris had no such object with which to cover himself. He felt the sharp pain of two arrows embedding themselves within his body, one plunging through his shoulder and the other through his upper arm. Fenris hissed with the suddenness of the injury, falling back towards the door. Instantaneously, he felt a hand on his uninjured arm, grasping him and pulling him into the relative safety of the hallway while Sebastian, Merrill, and Varric rushed into the room to assist Aveline.

It was Hawke who held his arm, her gaze fixed on the arrows that were lodged in his body as she pulled him towards her. Her eyes were focused and her expression grave as examined his injuries. Fenris craned his head to peer at the wounds, but she snapped sternly, “Don’t squirm.” Drawing out her knife, she deftly cut away the feathered fletching from both arrows before saying, without meeting his eyes, “Turn and face the wall. I have to pull them through before I can close the wounds.”

Without argument, though he did feel the slight urge to protest simply for the sake of being perverse, Fenris turned towards the wall and braced himself against the stone with his uninjured arm. He felt her hands against him as she prodded lightly at his wounds, drawing back the cloth that covered his shoulder so that she could examine him more carefully. Her fingertips were warm and gentle and, in one moment, he felt both comforted and repulsed by her touch. She drew the first arrow out of his shoulder, yanking it swiftly from him. He gritted his teeth as she did so, feeling it as the shaft dragged through his flesh. The next arrow came out of his upper arm, pulled out just as deftly as the first had been. Her palms spread over his back, trembling against his skin as he stood, his eyes closed, and felt the soothing caress of her magic over his wounds. It took a great deal of effort to keep himself from sighing with the relief he felt as the punctures began to close. He felt the warmth of her magic running through him, moving through the wounds and pulling him back together again. Even when he knew that she had finished healing him, he still felt the heat of her, though it no longer came from her magic. Her palm remained pressed to his arm, her fingers spread over his skin. Her touch was light and it was only for a moment, but his entire being was aware of it. When she drew away from him, he turned back to her, catching sight of the blush that had spread across her cheeks. Without further words, she turned from him and disappeared back into the room where the Templars awaited them.

By the time they reentered the room, several of the Templar archers had already been slain, but reinforcements had come to the Lieutenant’s aid from the door that stood beside him. The Lieutenant, who’s body was riddled with arrows from Varric and Sebastian’s bows, seemed only to fight on through the repeated and unrelenting use of potions which he drank back greedily while he men perished around him. Hawke directed her attentions towards him, fighting from the rear of the room, and failing to notice as one of the Templar’s moving covertly along to the fringes of the room, drew up behind her. While she sent her spells towards the Lieutenant, who was engaged in heated combat with Fenris, the Templar moved in to drive his blades through her kidneys. It was only Aveline, who had spotted him by chance, who managed to protect Hawke from such injury. Charging forward from across the room, Aveline knocked Hawke out of the way and slammed her shield into the Templar. Seeing what it was that Aveline had saved her from, Hawke sent a bolt of lightning directly into the would-be assassins chest. His body crackling with electricity, he struck down as Aveline drove her sword through his throat and severed his head from his body.

Limply, the Templar fell to the ground with the rest of his kind. Glancing over her shoulder, Hawke saw that he had been the last left standing and that Fenris had successfully cut down the Lieutenant while her attention had been diverted. Hawke turned back to Aveline, smiling faintly as their eyes met. “Thanks for getting me out of the way, Aveline,” she said, her side vaguely sore from the contact Aveline had made in shoving her out of the Templar’s path. “I really do hate those terribly stealthy ones that seem to show up out of nowhere.”

“Make no mention of it,” said Aveline with a nod. “I wasn’t about to watch you get skewered.”

Hawke reiterated her gratitude and, as she did so, her eyes fell incidentally on Fenris. His brow drawn and his head bowed, he looked somewhat downcast as he scuffed the tip of his toe against the tiled floor. Upon seeing his expression, Hawke thought that perhaps he was disappointed that she had not been stabbed. It was only the initial thought, which was quickly suppressed by the logical reminder that, if Fenris had wanted her to get stabbed by a Templar, then it would have already happened several times that day. In fact, throughout the day, he had gone to great trouble to ensure that no Templar got his sword into her. It suddenly dawned on her that, perhaps, he was dejected because he had not been the one who had shielded her. The thought that he would concern himself at all about her welfare pained her, rather like someone stabbing at her heart. Even so, she found herself blushing and, when he looked up and met her eye, the blush only intensified.

Clearing her throat, Hawke looked towards the open door from which the Templar reinforcements had come. “Well, it seems like we’re headed in the right direction, in any case,” she said quietly. Without waiting for either Aveline or Fenris to take the lead, she went off towards the exit and made her way into the large, cavernous space of the Templar Hall that led in from the Gallows Courtyard.

There was no roof overhead here and, as she tilted her head up towards the sky, Hawke could see the bright pinpoints of the stars in the dark canopy of the sky. Overhead, the moon was high in the sky, signifying to her how far the day had worn away. As she lowered her gaze, Hawke caught sight of the moonlight brightly catching on Fenris’ fair hair. She turned to him without intending to do so and noticed how soft his expression looked in the pale moonlight. Some of the anger and some of worry seemed to have faded as they stood together in the cool night air. Against his skin, the fine lyrium markings that extended from his chin to his lips seemed particularly bright as his face was illuminated by the moon. Hawke’s eyes were led to his lips by those twin markings. Lovely, soft lips that parted slightly as he took a deep breath of the night air. Hawke smiled involuntarily, looking away from him towards one of the large, copper birds which stood beside the main staircase. Someday, there would be someone else who would kiss those soft lips. Someone kind and gentle and with a beauty that extended from the soul up to the skin. And, standing in the moonlight with that girl, he would be at peace as he deserved to be. When he found her, in some hazy, undefined future, Fenris would love that girl with everything within him because she would never hurt him. And, when he held her, it would be kind and gentle and honest. And, when he held her close to him, he might tell her about the woman who had betrayed him. The girl would play with his soft hair and she would say sweet words and he would be content within the soft circle of her arms. That was the way it ought to be. Looking back to him, Hawke wished vaguely that she could have been the sort of gentle, kind girl who could take away his pain instead of being the source of it. Then again, there was no use in wishing for impossible things, especially when she could see, out of the corner of her eye, Templars coming forward from the Gallows Courtyard.

If she had needed further confirmation that they were on the right path to reach Meredith, then it came in droves as Templars charged for them, trying to eliminate Hawke and her companions before they could reach the Knight-Commander. When the Templars lay slaughtered, Hawke descended from the staircase where she had fought in the shadows of the looming avian statues. Moving down the stairs was trying, making her knees shake with each step and making her altogether too aware of the trembling over over-exerted muscles. Clutching onto the stair rail, she guided herself towards her companions. “You alright there, Hawke?” asked Varric, furrowing his brow and surveying her shaking body with a quick flick of his eyes.

She nodded. “I’m fine. Only a little tired,” she assured him. “It seemed like those Templars wanted to keep us out of the Courtyard. Perhaps we should go see what they were so eager to protect.”

Varric smiled crookedly. “I wonder if there will be a welcoming party.”

“If I had to venture I guess, then I would say that a welcoming party is pretty much a given,” said Hawke, heading towards the large arch that led to the exterior of the Gallows.

The Tranquil had been kept on display here once, selling their wares and serving as a reminder of what came of defying the Order. Anders had always feared Tranquility and she had feared it on his behalf. Whenever they passed through the Gallows, she had felt his anger and his fear. In those days, she had taken his hand, reminding him without words that she was there to protect him. And she had protected him in the end, in the only way that she knew how. Hawke turned her head towards the wooden tables that were abandoned now. Their Tranquil proprietors were likely dead, slaughtered in the fray and emotionless even as they died. She had heard once that death was a journey. She wondered where that journey led and she hoped silently that Anders would find peace wherever his journey took him.

Beyond where she stood, she could see a large congregation of Templars and, at their center, she saw Meredith. Meredith, with her eyes turned towards where Hawke stood. The Templars had not rushed forward and Meredith made no move to advance, and Hawke knew that she and her companions were meant to come forward. She and Meredith would meet like Generals at the center of the battlefield before the slaughter began. There was no preventing that, Hawke realized. Perhaps it had always been coming to this.

Hawke looked over her shoulder at the others. They had followed her this far and, with all the danger and with all that she had done, they stood with her still. And Fenris among them, of all the impossible things. The muscles of his jaw were tight and his eyes had been fixed on her even before she had glanced his way. He didn’t look away from her then, even as she met his gaze. She memorized, in an instant, the flecks of gold that were trapped within the warm green of his eyes. There was no hatred in them then; it was bewildering and beautiful and, if she fell, she wanted to fall with his image playing in her mind. Perhaps awkward under her stare, Fenris gave her a curt nod, encouraging her to move forward towards Meredith. Hawke smiled wistfully, turning away from him at last and looking towards the ground as she regained the composure of her expression. “Shall we?” she said at last, when her expression was blank.

“We shall,” she heard Aveline say steadily.  

With her heart beating out a steady beat, Hawke led the way towards Meredith and her Templars.

When Hawke was within earshot, Meredith addressed her, coming forward slightly from her men. “And here we are, Champion, at long last,” she drawled, seemingly undaunted by the fact that Hawke had already killed a slew of Templars that had stood in her path.

“You sound as if you’ve been planning for this, Knight-Commander,” Hawke said calmly, feeling her legs begin to tremble once more as she took those last few steps towards where Meredith now stood.

“What happens to you now is your own doing,” Meredith replied. “You’ve never been part of this Circle, and I tolerated that, but in defending them you’ve chosen to share their fate.”

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, meaning to tell Meredith that it had never been her intention to defend blood mages and that all she had set out to do was prevent needless slaughter, but she was interrupted by Meredith’s Knight-Captain. “Knight-Commander, I thought we intended to arrest the Champion,” the Knight-Captain said hesitantly, his voice drawing Hawke’s attention to him as he approached the side of his Commander. As her eyes fell on him, Hawke furrowed her brow. She remembered Cullen, who had been stationed often in the Courtyard. She had seen him intermittently and, on occasion, they had spoken. His time in Kirkwall, she saw, had aged him tremendously. Though the overuse of lyrium had been apparent on his face since their first meeting, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the patches of skin that he had scratched from himself during periods of withdrawal had become more pronounced. With time, all Templars succumbed to the lyrium that the Chantry foisted upon them. It occurred to Hawke in an instant that perhaps it was the years of lyrium abuse that had finally made Meredith go entirely mad. Only a very few Templars managed to retain their mental clarity past a certain age.

Meredith turned to her Knight-Captain, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she looked at him. “You will do as I command, Cullen,” she hissed.

“No,” he replied firmly. “I defended you when Thrask started whispering you were mad. But this is too far.” It was costing him visible effort to defy Meredith in this manner, but he continued to do so in spite of his trepidation.

“I will not allow insubordination!” Meredith spat furiously, her blue eyes frozen over with icy rage. “We must stay true to our path!” Her anger exceeding what she could express with her words, Meredith unsheathed the sword that hung at her side and extended it towards the Knight-Captain who had dared to question her authority. The sword looked ordinary enough at first, though it was intricately crafted and had been wrought into an unusual shape. Even though it appeared to be no more than metal, Hawke felt something strange about the weapon. It was an old, familiar magic that Hawke had felt before. Hawke identified the source of it even before the Knight-Commander’s sword began to glow with crimson light, lit from within by the flaring power of pure and ancient lyrium.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks!” gasped Varric from behind Hawke. Not turning to face him, Hawke’s eyes remained fixed on the sword. The red light of the sword’s lyrium core suffused the metal of the sword, growing brighter and encompassing the entire surface of the blade and hilt. Brilliant cracks of light danced over the sword, as if the object alone were incapable of containing such great magic and the power was attempting to break free of its vessel. Hawke could hear the song of the lyrium, feel the hairs on the nape of her neck rising as a chill coursed over her skin.

“You recognize it, don’t you?” sneered Meredith, turning the tip of her blade away from Cullen and pointing it directly at Hawke instead. Fighting the urge to flinch, Hawke stared steadily at Meredith, feeling the hum of the lyrium intensifying. “Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads. The dwarf charged a great deal for his prize.”

“Meredith,” Hawke said gravely, keeping her voice very even, “there’s power in that lyrium that you don’t want to trifle with. The dwarf who sold it to you was driven mad by it.”

Meredith smiled wolfishly, ignoring Hawke’s words of warning. “All of you!” called Meredith, addressing the assembly of Templars that surrounded her still. “I want her dead!”

Hesitatingly, the Templars exchanged an uncertain glance while Cullen drew his own blade. “Enough!” he exclaimed forcefully, drawing Meredith’s attention back to him. “This is not what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander, step down. I relieve you of your command!” Hawke watched him, her brow drawn. She would hardly have expected to find even a tentative alliance with a Templar before that moment. The surprises of the day were, apparently, unceasing.

Meredith turned towards her subordinate, gesturing with her sword, which hummed audibly with its every movement. Hawke shied away from the increasingly frantic Templar, stepping back in line with her companions and tightening her fingers around her staff as her body began to well with the magic that she called from within herself. “My own knight-captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic,” marveled Meredith, her eyes wide and wild as she stared at Cullen. It was impossible to say whether she truly believed this or whether she was merely trying to justify the action she now found it incumbent upon herself to take. Hawke instinctively moved closer to Fenris as she watched Meredith, transfixed by the woman’s growing madness. Fenris felt the back of her hand touch his, their knuckles brushing lightly against each other almost as if her hand had been about to slip into his grasp. Turning his head slightly, he saw that she was not looking at him and, indeed, seemed hardly aware of the fact that she had moved so near to him. Her eyes were fixed on the Knight-Commander, her jaw slightly slack and her expression filled with horror. He did not move away from her, but allowed her to remain close while he lifted his sword slightly, preparing for what was certain to come.

“You’re all weak, allowing the mages to control your minds, to turn you against me!” Meredith went on, snarling at her men and gesturing madly with her sword as they drew further away from her, glancing towards the archways that led away from the Courtyard. “But I don’t need any of you! I will protect this city myself!” Meredith shouted, rounding on Hawke again.

Meredith’s attention was fixed on Hawke now, her sword still raised and her light eyes reflecting its crimson glow. In her peripheral vision, Hawke saw something move and realized that Fenris was positioning himself between her and Meredith. He was not alone in doing so, joined by Cullen, who placed himself in his Commander’s way. “You’ll have to go through me!”

“Traitors! All of you! I’ll have all of your heads!” screamed Meredith shrilly, addressing all of her underlings though her eyes darted quickly between Cullen and Hawke. The other Templars stumbled back from their Commander and Hawke was certain that, beneath their helmets, their faces show the same nervous anticipation that was mounting within her. The light of Meredith’s lyrium sword was flaring blindingly now and, though Hawke stood her ground, all the Templars but Cullen fled quickly from Meredith’s wrath. The crackling red light of the lyrium was spreading, winding over Meredith arm and channeling throughout her entire body. The power swelled, the air sizzling as Meredith’s eyes flooded with redness as the ancient power of the lyrium idol infused her entire body with its magic. It was hollowing her out, taking her over to make room for itself within her. Hawke had seen light like this blaring within hollowed eyes before. She’d seen the light that flashed when a person was taken over, replaced by a power that was too strong for them to contain. With red sparks raising from her skin like dancing drops of blood, Meredith placed the tip of her sword to the paving stones and, tilting her face towards the sky, shouted, “Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter! Maker, your servant begs you for the strength to defeat this evil!” It was a prayer to her absent god, but it tore from her like a blood mage’s invocation. All around the Courtyard, a flickering wall of dazzling light rose, trapping Hawke and her allies within its confines as Meredith charged towards them.

Hawke fell back, narrowly escaping the tip of Meredith’s sword as Fenris threw himself in the Knight-Commander’s path, their swords clashing together with a flash of blazing light. Hawke ran towards the outskirts, positioning herself far from Meredith so that she would be able to cast without interruption. When she turned back, facing the center of the Courtyard where Fenris was engaged with Meredith, Hawke saw that his body now glowed with his own lyrium. The entire courtyard glowed with the red light of the barriers that Meredith had erected and Fenris alone blazed with a brilliant blue light that seemed particularly bright in juxtaposition with the ruddiness of Meredith’s power. Hawke’s lips twitched into a smile as she watched him fight, sending her aid in the form of a crackling bolt of lightning that made the Knight-Commander cry out in pain.

Hawke’s attack was soon met with retribution. As soon as the lightning died on Meredith’s skin, her body burned with something like fire that seemed borne of the lyrium within her. As suddenly as Hawke had sent her lightning, the fire fell away from Meredith’s body and shot back towards Hawke. There was no time to evade it and Hawke gasped as the trail of brilliant flames collided with her body. It did not consume her like ordinary flame, but seemed instead to feed on something within her, burning away her reserves of strength as it swept over her. Gasping with surprise, Hawke fell to the ground, weak and breathless as Meredith’s fire died.

Merrill was beside her, calling her name and asking if she was alright, but Hawke shook her head, ordering her fellow mage to continue casting. There was little that Hawke could do then and certainly nothing that Merrill could do to aid her except for continuing to fight. Hawke knew that she herself would be unable to cast, unable to be of any help to her allies, until she restored herself with a lyrium potion. For the second time that day, she allowed herself a dose. Once more, her skin was alive with the pleasure chill as she felt the warmth of the lyrium flow down her throat and flood her entire being. As she rose from the ground, her body was shaking violently, sweat trembling on her skin, and the lights of the Courtyard almost blinding as they penetrated her fiercely dilated pupils. After so long without lyrium, she had been using it too often in these last days and the effects were beginning to make themselves known. Already, she could tell that her tolerance was decreasing and that her body responded with greater elation when she finally took the lyrium into her body. She felt herself grinning against her will as her eyes darted around the courtyard.

Most of the Templars had fallen away, trapped outside of the energy fields that Meredith had raised. As she fought, Hawke stood with her back towards one of the shields, just close enough to it to gain some sense of its power. The power which radiated from it did not seem so very different from the force fields that mages were so easily able to put in place. Odd that a woman who had fought throughout her life to prevent the use of magic should find herself using it. Odd that a man who had campaigned against blood magic would have succumbed to its power. The allure of magic, it seemed, was too strong for even the most faithful to resist. It was irresistible, calling to everyone who could hear its song and feel its promise of power.

The power that the lyrium idol had given Meredith was not proving equal to the test of defeating the numerous opponents that closed in around her. Meredith’s shoulder was bleeding freely where Aveline’s sword had driven through her, and blood poured from her forehead where Fenris’ sword had skimmed across her skull. Her skin was puckered and burned from the spells that Merrill and Hawke were continuing to summon and, in the shank of her right leg, there were at least three arrows imbedded. She fought out, her nerves seeming to be somewhat resistant to the pain, but she seemed to be slowing somewhat as she just barely dodged another strike from Fenris’ sword. Aware of how close she had come to being felled, Meredith flared once more with power and hurled herself out of reach.

Her body was high above them, carried by the power that filled her body. She landed heavily atop a stone platform which towered above where her enemies stood. Looking down over them, protected from harm by her barriers, Meredith called out to her Maker once more and, eyes closed, poured the lyrium’s power into one of the golden statues that stood not far from where she knelt.

Channeled through the ground, the lyrium rose up from the stone beneath the statue, raising up like vines and overtaking its enormous figure. Hawke watched in horror as the statue of the gate guardian began to shift slightly, its stiff, metallic limbs seeming to come alive even though it retained its hard form. The statue was gargantuan, a winged figure of something like a man that held aloft its massive weapons. It leapt free from the platform where it stood and crashed to the ground near Hawke. Quickly, she fled from it as its thunderous strides carried it after her. Without turning or slowing her flight, Hawke pointed her staff back towards the statue and sent licking flames coursing over its body. The gold from which it had been constructed softened under the white heat of Hawke’s fire and, in thin rivulets, the metal dripped down the statue’s torso. Its body slouched, slowing slightly.

Hawke turned when she was out of the gate guardian’s immediate reach. Already, Fenris and Aveline were hacking away at the soft metal of its leg, concentrating on one limb together as they tried to bring the animated statue crashing to the ground. Merrill, having observed the effect of fire on the gold, sent her own flames towards the statue. Arrows, coming across the Courtyard from Varric and Sebastain, shot into the softened metal, disappearing into the oozing gold that flowed over the statue. Its balance was offset when Aveline and Fenris detached one of its feet from its ankle and, torso bent limply at the waist from the effects of the heat, the gate guardian finally toppled to the ground while the melted gold began to pool around its warped body.

It had not taken them long to bring the guardian to the ground, but it had been enough time for Meredith to minister to her own wounds. She returned then, coming down from her great height with enough force that the stones cracked beneath her when she landed. Many of the stones in the Courtyard were loose now, broken and shaken from position when the gate guardian had tromped over them. Hawke had to take care not to stumble over loose stone as she rushed towards Meredith, sending forth a wave of ice that crashed over the Knight-Commander and trapped her within it. Aveline slammed her shield against the ice, creating a web of cracks in Meredith’s fracturing armour. The ice did not hold Meredith long, however, and, with a furious scream, she broke free of her encasement and sent another stream of draining flames towards Hawke. This time, however, Hawke was able to fall to the side, missing the attack by a hair’s breadth. Her heart hammering violently within her chest, Hawke responded to Meredith’s fire with flames of her own. The Knight-Commander’s cowl lit, consumed by flames, as Meredith cried out, batting at the fire with her free hand and brandishing her sword with the other.

Singed and still smoldering, Meredith fled from her opponents once more, returning to the safety of her elevated perch. Swearing loudly, Hawke sent a hex towards Meredith, only to have it blocked by a shimmering shield that formed an orb around Meredith. Hawke’s body was surging with power, both weary and energized, as she was forced to wait for some enemy that she could fight. The Knight-Commander soon obliged Hawke with an opponent, though she refused to come down to the fray herself.

A second statue was awakened by the lyrium’s power, stumbling down to fight in Meredith’s place. Eyes narrowing, Hawke lifted her staff, allowing her power to build within the crystal that was mounted atop it. As this power grew, she felt the slight breeze of someone rushing past her. She had not noticed before she saw him raise his sword against the gate guardian, that Cullen had been fighting alongside them. He fought differently than either Aveline or Fenris. There was less raw strength in his attacks than there were in Aveline’s and he moved with less agility or speed than Fenris, but Hawke saw that he still fought well and with a determination that was admirable. Her eyes followed him only for a moment before returning, as they often did, to Fenris.

The glow of his lyrium was flickering on his skin, diminishing visibly. His energy was depleting, she sensed, as he was forced into continual combat with opponents that seemed resistant to pain. As the gate guardians feet thudded to the ground around him, Fenris was kept constantly moving, dodging the heavy steps of the statue while still attempting to strike it with his sword. Hawke drew closer to him, near enough that she would be able to successfully immobilize the statue’s enormous feet. Merrill drew closer as well, summoning roots that burst free from the ground beneath the stone and locked around one of the guardian’s ankles. It flailed, trying to free its bound foot, as Hawke froze its other leg in place. As the statue lurched violently, the blunt side of one of its swords, collided with Hawke’s side, throwing her roughly back to the ground. As she landed, she heard the loud pop of her shoulder dislocating and felt the shooting pain of something cracking within her torso. Gritting her teeth to keep from calling out in pain, she heaved herself up from the ground with her left arm hanging uselessly at her side. Trying desperately to stand, she fell back when her broken rib shifted within her. The cry escaped her involuntarily then, her eyes watering as she made a second attempt to stand.

Her cry of pain, stifled though it had been, had drawn Fenris to her side. The glow of his lyrium was entirely gone then and, as he held out his hand to help her from the ground, she heard the ragged sound of his breathing. With her right hand, she accepted his help and sighed gratefully as he pulled her from the ground. He was on the verge of running back towards the guardian when she instructed him to help her with her shoulder. Biting down on her lip, Hawke was able to suppress her scream as he popped the shoulder back into place. He held her arm for a moment longer than was necessary, one of his hands lingering on her shoulder, as he asked her in a murmur if she was alright. She nodded, fumbling through the pouch that hung from her belt. “I’m fine,” she wheezed, the pain in her side still almost unbearable, “but you’re tired.” She withdrew a small amber bottle from her bag and pressed it into his hand. “Drink this.” He looked at her for a moment and then down at the bottle that still lay in his palm. It occurred to her that he may no longer be familiar with these potions. She opened her mouth to tell him that he should trust her and that he should just drink it quickly, but she realized that she had no right to demand either of those things of him. “It’ll restore your energy,” she said hastily. “Drink it if you’d like.” The statue had freed itself from its confines now and, before Fenris could respond to what she had said, Hawke ran towards the outskirts of the courtyard. When she came to a halt, turning back to the others, she saw that Fenris’ light was blazing once more.

Her side was throbbing. Still, she was reluctant to heal it when there could be more debilitating injuries to come. Meredith had not yet descended from her perch and there was no telling what else awaited them before she finally fell. Expending mana unnecessarily, when their primary foe had still not fallen, seemed altogether too reckless to Hawke. Hissing for breath between her gritted teeth, she knocked the gate guardian to the ground with a massive pile of stone.

Yet, even though it had fallen, the ground still shook from heavy footsteps. Wheeling around, Hawke saw that Meredith had called still more statues into action. The courtyard had been stripped of gate guardians, their massive forms rendered into heaps of disjointed metal, but there were still inanimate allies that Meredith was able to awaken around her. From the higher reaches of the courtyard, the shining form of a slave had fallen forward. Hawke felt the tremors of its movement through the stone as it tried to move. The act of walking seemed to be exceedingly difficult for it as it lurched into motion. The statues that were placed throughout the courtyard depicted thin, starving slaves with long limbs and torsos so wasted away that each rib was visible. The proportions of such a body made each step a perilous balancing act as the slave statue staggered forward, shaking the ground with its every tremulous step.

That statue was not alone in coming into action. The glow of Meredith’s power, where she knelt above them, was widening. She was consumed by light, obscured from sight by its brilliance, as more of the slave statues tumbled off of their elevated platform and came shakily towards the small, flesh figures who scattered below.

The army of statues seemed always to be growing as more began to move, breaking free of their foundations and attempting, with slow yet heavy steps, to crush Hawke and her companions. These statues fell easily, their bodies weaker than the guardians that had come before, but they were more numerous. These Gallows had been designed by the Tevinter magisters to break the spirits of all who came to Kirkwall. The Gallows had been filled with representations of slaves, reminding all who came to that city of their place within it. These emaciated figures were all in motion now, an army of shining slaves under Meredith’s command as she wielded her power from a distance.

Along the perimeter of the Courtyard, the barriers that Meredith had put in place were flickering, their strength waning as Meredith directed more of her energy into calling forth new allies. Through the throng of slaves statues, Hawke saw that one of the fallen guardians was beginning to move once more amongst the massive heaps of metal that were spread over the ground. Above the roar of battle, Hawke heard the grind of metal sparking together while the gate guardians pieced themselves back together, welded by the magic that Meredith poured into them. When they rose from the ground, they were no longer as they had been. They had shed the shapes of men and become spider-like, crawling over the ground with lop-sided bodies composed of their mangled bits and pieces.

Breathless and her heart hammering out of her chest, Hawke wove through the slave statues towards one of the reassembled guardians. As she showered oil over it, setting the accelerant ablaze, she noticed that the barriers around the courtyard had fallen away entirely now. Through an archway which was now opened, Hawke caught sight of a lone figure and, before she was able to make out who it was, she heard Aveline calling his name.

“Donnic!” came the call from somewhere behind Hawke and then, through the crowd, Hawke saw the Guard-Captain tearing towards her husband. Though a gaunt statue passed across Hawke’s field of vision, she saw Aveline and Donnic embracing each other, lingering in each others arms though the battle waged on just a few hundred feet from where they stood. Looking back towards the misshapen guardian, its body dripping with molten gold, Hawke smiled. Aveline must have been terrified, fearful for the life of her husband, and yet she had said nothing while they fought in defense of Kirkwall. The smile remained on Hawke’s lips even as she dodged an explosion of flames that burst from the gate guardian’s mouth. As she fell back, Fenris charged forward, coming to her aid.

Hawke’s headache, which had been growing throughout the day, was throbbing insistently at her temples as she continued to fight back the resilient metal bodies that surged around her. Her muscles were sore in spite of the adrenaline that rushed through her body and, even with the lyrium she had taken earlier, she could feel herself tiring once more. There were so many statues still standing even though the Courtyard was littered with broken, twisted metal that had been rendered immobile once more. Every statue had been stripped from its rightful place now, with the exception of the large birds which punctuated the staircase that rose up towards Meredith. Hawke hoped that they too would not be brought to life. The idea of their gigantic forms taking flight and sweeping overhead with flashing metal wings sent shivers down Hawke’s spine.

Meredith stood above them still, the protective shield still shining in an orb around her body. To Hawke’s great dismay, she saw that the barriers at the base of the stairs were still in place, keeping the Knight-Commander protected. Hawke’s hand clenched tightly around her staff as she gazed up at Meredith. With intense frustration, she continued to expend her energies on the statues while her true enemy was well out of reach.

The shaking of the ground was diminishing as the crowd of statues thinned, their golden bodies lapsing into immobility as they fell. Still, the sound of metal colliding with metal echoed through the night and still the darkness was lit with the flashes and flares of magic that burst from Hawke and Merrill’s staffs, but the battle was waning within the Courtyard. Soon, Hawke thought, it would be safe enough for her to turn her attentions and her power to wearing down the barriers that protected Meredith from harm. The Knight-Commander could not hide forever, veiled behind her lyrium’s magic. Surely, Meredith realized this as well.

Even as the thunder of combat was deadening, Hawke began to hear something new over the din. In the same manner as a desire demon, Meredith’s voice came to Hawke’s ears, whispering and shouting all at once as she spoke. “It’s not enough that they make innocents suffer, no!” It was an embittered cry, meant for all throughout the Courtyard to hear, but spoken with the quick tumble of a raving madwoman speaking only to herself. “We must also have insult added to injury! Spare the mages? Give them freedom? And they use it to tear down everything we hold dear!” As Hawke lifted her eyes towards Meredith, she saw all barriers between them fall.

Meredith was charging forward down the stairs and running, with a resolute fixation, for her target. Her eyes darting ahead, predicting the path of the Knight-Commander’s movement, Hawke saw who it was who held Meredith’s attention now. He’d fallen, one of the dangling arms of a slave statue sending him flying back into a column, and his attention was not directed at Meredith as she came running forward. Unthinkingly, failing to see if there were any others who might be near enough to intercept Meredith, Hawke ran forward, sending forth a shock of energy that diverted the Knight Commander’s attention away from Fenris. Hissing in response to the pain, Meredith rounded on Hawke, rushing towards her. Hawke dodged to the side, narrowly missing being skewered by Meredith sword, and then slammed the heavy crystal which topped her staff down on the Knight-Commander’s head. Meredith spun, striking out with a quick movement of her sword and, even as she attempted to sidestep the attack, Hawke heard the clatter of her staff falling to the ground and the sudden cry of pain that escaped her own lips. Stumbling backwards, her eyes turning to the ground where her staff had fallen, Hawke realized why it was that she had lost hold of her weapon.

A trail of blood was following after her with each step she took backwards. The trail led from her own feet to the place where a large portion of her right hand had fallen, two fingers still pressed to the side of her staff. She heard herself whimpering hysterically as she tried to move back, her every step wobbling as Meredith laughed, staring after Hawke but not yet pursuing her.

Biting down on the inside of her cheek, trying to stop herself from making those pathetic, warbling cries, Hawke looked down at her hand. The pain was overwhelming, made worse by seeing the blood that was gushing free of her in torrents. From the knuckle just beside her ring finger down through her hand and just narrowly missing her thumb, there was a clean wound where the blade had sliced through her. Her index and middle finger, as well as the knuckles that had joined those fingers to her hand, were gone now, left lying on the stone in a pool of blood that had poured from Hawke as the wound was opened. Transfixed and disbelieving, she tried to wiggle her absent fingers but saw only the twitching of exposed bone. Though the pain was searing and almost blinding, it was nothing to match the horror of seeing her own naked bones shifting within her bleeding flesh. Hawke looked away, but she felt her stomach turning nonetheless. Choking back vomit, she took another staggering step away from Meredith.

The Knight-Commander was grinning now, no longer just watching Hawke’s panicked flight, but beginning, with deliberate strides to close the distance between them. Hawke’s entire body pulsed with pain and, though her companions were rushing to her now, she saw only Meredith closing in on her with those mad, glittering eyes. Impulsively, as she had done more than a thousand times before, Hawke extended both of her hands and sent a shock of lightning shooting towards Meredith. Her hand, open and bleeding as it was, was unable to channel her magic away from her body properly. Screaming with the excruciating pain of lightning surging over her open wound, lingering in her flesh, Hawke fell forward to the ground, crashing to her knees and pulling her hand tightly to her chest.

It was Fenris who reached Meredith before the others, the hilt of his sword smashing against her forehead and sending her reeling backwards. Panting, and feeling herself shaking with tears, Hawke rocked back and forth, looking up towards Fenris as he raised his sword. As it came crashing down, Meredith evaded his assault, laughing manically as she fled from him.

The blood was so warm against Hawke’s chest as her already stained robes soaked it in. There was so much blood still emptying from her and so much that was smeared across the courtyard. Enough lost, almost, for her to lose consciousness. Enough already that she felt her head swimming, her eyes going in and out of focus as she watched the light of Fenris’ lyrium dancing across her field of vision. She’d be of no use to anyone if she let this continue. Already, her arteries would be constricting, drawing so far back away from the wound that she would need to slice into her hand to reattach them to her severed fingers. If such a thing were even possible. The lightning had damaged the nerves of her hand extensively and, even if she managed to crawl across the Courtyard to retrieve her fingers, reattachment might still be impossible. It didn’t matter, in any case, if she had eight fingers or ten. It didn’t matter and she didn’t care. Sliding her left hand over the right, she closed her eyes tightly and focused on closing the wound. There wasn’t enough spare skin for her to join it together, but she could at least close off the veins and arteries to stop the bleeding. She would never have done such a thing to someone else, not if she intended for them to heal properly and make a full recovery. But then, it didn’t matter if she recovered.

Opening her eyes, she rose from the ground, only to discover that her sense of balance was entirely gone. Staggering to the side, she was only barely able to keep herself from falling once more to the ground. Trying to keep her feet planted, Hawke attempted to make her blurring eyes focus on any of what lay in front of her. Her head was so light, her mind and her body proving very difficult to control. She knew what Anders would tell her. He would tell her that she was going into shock. That it was never enough just to heal the body, it was necessary to treat for shock as well when traumatic injury was sustained. She heard herself laughing. Anders.

Swaying to the side once more and somehow remaining upright, her eyes followed the blue glow of Fenris’ light and focused on where he and Meredith still fought. She was uncertain as to how much time had passed. Holding her arms out to her sides to keep her balance, she stumbled forward, drawing closer to them. Near enough to cast, she extended her left hand in front of her. That simple action disrupted her tenuous balance enough that she fell, landing heavily on her knees as she crumpled to the ground once more. It was better to be kneeling, easier to focus her attention on channeling her magic towards Meredith. Easier to wrap Meredith in a crushing prison of energy that pulsed around her body. Somewhere, Hawke heard one of the few remaining statues come crashing to the ground. She smiled, watching Fenris racing towards where Meredith’s body was bound.

The Courtyard filled with crimson light as Meredith broke free of Hawke’s spell and, with a pulse of her own energy, sent Fenris staggering backwards. “I will not be defeated!” Meredith shouted, her voice booming and seeming to reverberate through Hawke. Hawke squinted her eyes, barely able to see Meredith through the dozens of golden specks that danced and glittered through the air in front of her. Hawke followed the dancing dots of light with her eyes, but they always seemed to flit away from where her eyes focused. Glancing towards Fenris, she tried to make out whether he too was distracted by the glittering lights, but found that his gaze was focused intensely on Meredith. “Maker! Aid your humble servant!” screamed Meredith as Hawke followed Fenris’ eyeline with her own eyes.

The air flared once more with blinding red light. Wincing from its brightness, Hawke closed her eyes. Someone was screaming but it wasn’t her own voice this time. Opening her eyes, Hawke saw that the shimmering dots had multiplied across, dancing enthusiastically. They were swirling around the Knight-Commander as well, joined by flecks of white and red that seemed to be covering the entire surface of Meredith’s body. Meredith seemed to see them as well it seemed to be the lights that were making her scream. Hawke fell to her side, no longer able to retain the meager balance needed for kneeling. Looking down at her hand, she realized that she was still bleeding. She twitched her fingers again, watching the bones moving, before looking up once more. Meredith was flailing, her motions erratic as the red lights began to overtake her body. Fenris had moved away from her, his eyes turning towards Hawke.

Everything became still. The flailing had stopped, the screaming had stopped, and everything was still and quiet. Hawke felt the silence pulse within her ears, the beat of her own heart becoming audible in the absence of any greater sound. Fenris was coming towards her, the brilliance of his skin dimming as her eyes focused on him. She smiled at him as he stood before her. Fenris knelt, positioning one of his arms around her and helping her up from the ground. One of her arms was draped over his shoulders as he held her upright. His body was so pleasant and warm and, though the light of his lyrium had died, she could still feel its energy radiating from him. She let out a sigh, her body quivering against his as her lips curved into a smile.  

Hawke’s eyes were unseeing as her companions, panting from exertion, came towards her and Fenris. The Templars who had fled at the initial signs of Meredith’s madness reentered the Courtyard now, inspecting the petrified form of their former Knight-Commander. Meredith’s body was hardened to stone, her mouth frozen in a wordless scream as her open eyes stared blindly towards the skies. Uncertainly, the Templars looked towards where Hawke and her companions were clustered. A small number of the Templars seemed to draw infinitesimally closer towards them, but they stopped their advance when Fenris bared his teeth into a feral snarl. As he pulled Hawke tighter to his side, her head lolled against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed.

Cullen stepped closer towards Fenris, looking appraisingly at Hawke and then at her companions. Though the statues had fallen and Meredith had finally been destroyed, all of Hawke’s allies kept their weapons held at the ready, warily surveying the assembled Templars. Cullen turned his eyes to Fenris, who was glaring menacingly back at him. Hawke’s eyes opened suddenly and then fluttered shut once more as she seemed to come rapidly in and out of consciousness. “Get her out of here,” said Cullen gruffly, turning from them and going off towards the Templars to issue orders.

Letting his sword drop from his hand, Fenris lifted Hawke into his arms. Feeling her position change, she laughed again. Her neck went limp, her head falling back as her body shook in his arms. Taking one final glance over his shoulders at the massed Templars, Fenris began to swiftly carry Hawke from the Courtyard. “I love you,” he heard her rasp, in a voice so quiet and slurred that he could barely make out what she had said.

Fenris looked down at her, at her thin neck and the yellowing bruises that spread across the ashen skin of her throat. “I know,” he murmured, passing through the gate and leaving the Templars behind at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) In the game, I was sort of surprised by how easy the final battle was. I mean, all of the combat is easier in DAII than in Origins (Not that I’m complaining, really… it looked more exciting and that counts for something), but the final battle, even though it takes a relatively long time, just isn’t that hard. I suppose that’s why I injured Hawke. I wanted the battle to have some weight. As far as combat is concerned, I took the path of least resistance and cut out all of the optional battles (you didn’t want to read them anyway). With the battles that I did include, I did try to make them productive in terms of the Fen/Hawke relationship. I mean, I have obviously gotten really tired of writing combat. Sometimes I wish I could just do bulletpoints… is that acceptable writing? Oh well. Never doing it again.
> 
> B) Okay, since this is part of the last chapter I posted, there’s still one more and the epilogue. Those should come quicker than these last two did, given that I don’t have to slog my way through any more of this ungodly combat.


	33. The Road Ahead

They left Kirkwall behind, disappearing into the foothills to the north. Even though the Knight-Captain had dismissed him from his sight, there was no telling whether or not the other members of the Order would be as tolerant of what had passed that night. While they moved onwards into the trees, the sky lightening with approaching dawn, the city continued to burn behind them. The effects of the Chantry’s explosion had, indeed, been devastating and there was no telling as of yet just how much more destruction was in store. Fenris found, however, that he cared little about what the future may hold for Kirkwall. He had far more immediate concerns. In his arms, Hawke was all but motionless. It had been more than half an hour since she had had even the briefest moment of lucidity and, even though they had dosed her with the last of their healing potions, she was still ashen and glittering with dewy sweat. This concerned him more than he would have liked. He knew well enough that she had not been so badly injured that her life was in jeopardy, but he still felt a steadily growing amount of anxiety as they made their way to higher altitudes. His own concern for her bothered him nearly as much as the worry itself.

Fenris was not alone in troubling himself over Hawke’s welfare. The witch, who was walking annoyingly close to his side and continually craning her neck to stare at Hawke, kept lamenting the fact that she was unable to perform any healing magic of her own. At turns, the others hovered around Fenris as well, peering into Hawke’s face and speculating as to what ought to be done to promote her wellbeing. The most obvious solution was, of course, to halt their flight for the time being and tend to her properly. Eventually, though the destruction of Kirkwall was still within range of sight, it was decided that there was no other option. If the Templars gave chase, then so be it.

The sun rose fully into the sky while they made camp. As it had been on the preceding days, the air that morning was pleasantly warm. Through the tender green leaves of the canopy, yellow light danced over the spongy grasses that had just begun to grow up through the soil. Hawke was laid out beneath a small cluster of saplings, her body mostly in shade though the occasional gust of wind brushed the leaves aside and left her bathed in sunlight. She remained unconscious, though her eyelids fluttered when the light danced across her face. Fenris was tasked with dressing her wounds himself, being the only one among their number who had much experience with such things. In the years preceding his time in Kirkwall, when he had been alone with no one to look after him, he had had to tend to his own injuries often enough. Granted, this was worse than anything he had treated before. He wished, while he applied medicated balms to her hand, that she had been conscious so that he could tell her what a fool she had been. There had been no cause for such recklessness on her part and now she would forever bear the mark of her own stupidity. He would have liked very much to slap her, though there would have been little merit in doing so while she was still unconscious. So, rather than scolding her and rather than shouting at her for forcing him to worry, Fenris was left treating her injury using the meager supplies that they had found within the pouch she wore on her belt.

Her hand was small within his own, even with the bandages adding slightly to its mass. He realized that, if she fell ill or became infected, she would likely not be able to last long. Even before she’d been wounded, Hawke had already looked to be on the brink of death. This could only serve to worsen her condition considerably. Gently, he ran his fingertips over her bandages and then, realizing the sentiment with which he had performed the gesture, he quickly placed her hand on her chest and backed away from her.

“She will be alright… won’t she?” ventured Merrill as Fenris rose to his feet.

“There’s the distinct possibility,” replied Fenris curtly, leaning back against a tree while keeping Hawke within his eyesight.

Aveline shifted her weight, folding her arms over her chest as she pressed against Donnic’s side. Her husband draped his arm over her shoulder, pulling her closer to him. “I’d feel better about all of this if she’d just wake up for a few moments,” said Aveline grimly, looking into Hawke’s pallid face.

Varric sighed. “Well, there’s always a chance that we could slap her awake, if anyone wants to volunteer.” He looked up towards Fenris, who responded by narrowing his eyes.

“A tempting offer,” said Fenris darkly, “though I think we would be better served with waiting for her to regain consciousness on her own.”

Sebastian nodded. “All we can offer her now is our prayers and our patience.” Fenris fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Gradually, the cluster of people around Hawke began to diminish. Aveline and Donnic were the first to part from the others, claiming that they were going off to gather firewood. When they returned, however, they were fairly disheveled and both were unencumbered by any firewood whatsoever. Though Varric smiled knowingly, no one made any comment on what had passed between man and wife when they were alone together and heat of battle was behind them. However, it was decided shortly thereafter that it was indeed necessary for a fire to be lit so that Hawke’s body temperature could be kept at a comfortable level. It was then that the process of setting up camp was undertaken with greater industry and focus.

Fenris slouched down against the tree where he had been leaning. Sitting on the ground near where Hawke lay, he furrowed his brow. If he hadn’t seen the rise and fall of her chest and the slight movement of her eyes beneath her purpled lids, then he might have sworn that she had died. Even as it was, he was not quite sure of her life until he reached out and, pressing his fingertips to her throat, felt the faint beating of her heart. He was grateful that the others had gone off to attend to the camp, affording him some space and limited privacy. The thought that they might see some hint of concern in his eyes was humiliating. The thought that he even felt concern at all was humiliating enough even when he was the only one aware of it.

She looked so fragile as she lay beneath the trees, her hair fanned out wildly across the ground and her skin still streaked with blood. He wished passingly that he had water with which to wash her clean, though surely he couldn’t perform such a task when the others weren’t so very far away. Still, it seemed somehow strange to see the white of her bandages contrasting so starkly with her blood-stained clothing. If she had only bothered to heal herself with more care, then perhaps she wouldn’t have needed bandages at all. If she had only bothered to think about her own welfare, then perhaps her eyes would be open and staring back at him. And what then? When she opened her eyes, what then? His fingers played across her exposed neck, trailing down to her clavicle and gently running over her bare skin. Hawke sighed in her sleep and, when Fenris heard the hushed sound, he started, drawing away from her as quickly as he could. He situated himself further away from her, pointedly directing his eyes away from where she lay. In the event that she awoke, he was hardly going to let her catch him staring at her.

Consciousness came to her slowly. She became aware, before anything else, that her hand was throbbing painfully. Aside from that, she really felt quite well. Considering. It took her a moment, to fully piece together everything to had happened. The Chantry had exploded. She’d murdered Anders. Orsino was dead. Meredith was dead. Her hand hurt terribly and, for whatever reason, she had been sleeping on the soft, cool ground. Groaning, she opened her eyes and attempted to sit upright.

“You’re alright, then?”

Her body stiffening with the shock of hearing his voice, Hawke fell back to the ground once more. On her second attempt, she only managed to lift her head off the ground, though that was still enough that she was able to see Fenris. He was seated not far from where she lay, looking at her with an expression that betrayed nothing of what he might be feeling. For a long moment, she found it impossible to speak. Seeing him there before her left her throat feeling remarkably dry and rendered her mind almost entirely incapable of remembering how even the most basic sentences were constructed. “I—I’m fine,” she stammered at last, while he continued to stare at her with his inscrutable green eyes.

Hawke tried to think of something further to say, but he saved her the trouble, rising quickly from the ground and saying hurriedly, “I’ll tell the others you’re awake.” He strode away from her, making his way towards Varric while Hawke struggled up into a seated position. When she was able, she stared after Fenris, watching as he began pacing near the outskirts of the clearing while Varric drew towards her. Hawke leaned back against the thin tree that was behind her, her eyes hopelessly drawn to Fenris though she knew she ought to be paying some mind to Varric as he approached her.

“So the elf tells me that you’re on the mend,” said the dwarf, plopping down beside her. With a tremendous amount of effort, she was able to wrench her neck until she was looking at Varric instead of staring, mesmerized, at Fenris. When she looked at him, she saw that, though Varric’s tone was light, his expression bore signs of concern.

Reassuringly, Hawke smiled. “I’m fine,” she murmured, forcing herself to keep smiling.

“Glad to hear it,” nodded Varric. “You’ve got to get your strength up for the bombardment of coddling you’ve got coming your way. I had to tell Daisy to hang back for your own protection; I worried she might smother you with inordinate affection.” With an inclination of is head, Varric drew Hawke’s eye towards the fire where the others were still congregated, all of them staring towards her with almost identical expressions of concern. Hawke laughed under her breath, looking back towards Varric.

“Well, thank you for not all descending on me at once,” she muttered.

“It was the elf’s suggestion,” Varric told her coolly. “Seems he thought you might need some time to adjust before getting mobbed by your friends and well-wishers.”

Hawke broke eye-contact with Varric, having no choice now but to look towards Fenris. He remained towards the outskirts of the trees, facing away from her now and shifting his weight as if he were immensely uncomfortable. “Oh,” Hawke said quietly, remembering that she was meant to respond to what Varric had said. She could barely hear her own words over the persistent and deafening roar of her heart. With each powerful beat, she could feel the blood pulsing painfully in her hand. Finally, Hawke built up the nerve to look down towards the source of the throbbing pain. Frowning slightly, she wondered who it was that had bandaged her. With her left hand, she lightly prodded at the clean, white linen. Whoever it was that had dressed her wound had done an admirable job of it. “So, how long was I unconscious?” she asked in a muted voice, still running her hands experimentally over her bandages.

“Upwards of five hours, by my best estimate,” Varric told her. “It’s probably the longest night’s sleep you’ve gotten in a while, I’d wager.”

“I guess that explains why I feel so well-rested,” she said flatly, looking back up at him. “You all should be moving on soon,” she added gravely, after a short lapse of conversation had given her time to reflect. “It’s not safe to be near to Kirkwall now. It’s only a matter of time before the Chantry seeks retribution for what happened there.”

Varric smiled crookedly. “There’s no need to discuss all the intricacies of our future plans now,” he assured her.

“I don’t think I can bear it if you, of all people, start treating me like an invalid,” she told him. Then, her eyes flitting towards Fenris, she added quietly, “And I need to know that all of you will get somewhere safe.”

Varric, sighed, watching her eyes as she stared beyond him. “Well, I believe there was some talk of testing our fortunes in Antiva. I don’t relish the thought of another lengthy hike, but at least we won’t have slavers on our tail this time around. We will, of course, hold off on our more strenuous adventuring until you’ve had a chance to heal yourself a bit more thoroughly.”

She shook her head. “I have to stay around here at least a while longer. This might seem foolish… but my dog is still in the city, if he’s….” She cleared her throat and said conclusively, “He’ll find me.” Then, looking at Varric out of the corner of her eye, she added, “And you all don’t have to stay here with me while I wait. After everything that happened in Kirkwall, you’ll all be safer if I’m not with you.”

Varric furrowed his brow. “Safer, yes, but infinitely more bored,” he objected. “What kind of adventures can we be expected to have without the glue that holds our merry band together?”

Tilting her head slightly to the side, Hawke smiled half-heartedly. “You’ll be fine without me,” she sighed. “Sebastian will go back to Starkhaven, Donnic and Aveline have each other, and Merrill… well, she’ll have you to look after her, won’t she?” Then, after a moment’s silence, Hawke cleared her throat and added roughly, “And you’ll take Fenris with you, won’t you?”

“If he’d like to come along with us, then he’s more than welcome,” Varric told her, nodding his head in confirmation of his words.

“Good,” Hawke said with a faint smile. “You should talk to him about it sooner rather than later.” Her eyes turned once more towards Fenris and, this time, Varric followed her gaze. The elf was standing stock-still now, leaning against a tree with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. From what Varric could tell, Fenris was making a concerted effort not to look towards Hawke now that she had regained consciousness.

“He hasn’t been particularly chatty, but I’ll do my best to bring up the subject,” said Varric slowly, looking back towards Hawke. She was still gazing towards where Fenris stood, with a deep melancholy in her eyes. Varric paused, considering, before adding, “I don’t think I’d be mistaken in saying that the elf was more than a little worried about you. He didn’t leave your side until you awoke.”

Hawke closed her eyes, exhaling raggedly. “If that’s true,” she murmured, “then it’s all the more important that you take him with you.” She leaned her head back against the small sapling, keeping her eyes closed. “I have to heal myself,” she added at long last. “You don’t mind giving me a moment to concentrate, do you?”

“Sure thing, Hawke.” He rose from the ground, brushing off his clothes as he looked down at her face. Her eyes remained closed, her lower lip shaking slightly. “We’ll discuss further travel arrangements in the morning,” he told her. “I don’t think that it will do any of us much harm to stick around for one more night at least.”

She nodded her head up and down, her eyes fluttering open for a moment to look up at him. “Thank you, Varric,” she said softly, a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke.

With a quick nod of his head, Varric turned from her and walked back towards the others. When he neared the fire where they sat, Merrill rose from her seat. Shaking his head, Varric told her that it would probably be best to let Hawke alone for a bit while she attempted to close up her wounds. Fenris turned his head, watching as Merrill sat back down, looking a bit put out. Fenris wondered, as he glanced back in Hawke’s direction, whether she was truly going to heal herself or whether she had only been trying to drive off her overly-attentive friends. At least from this distance, it appeared that her excuse for solitude had been valid. Fenris watched as Hawke, without removing the bandages that he had put in place, covered her right hand with her left and began to flare slightly with the glow of white light that always seemed to envelop her body when she performed magic of this kind.

Hawke looked almost peaceful, seated in the shade of the saplings while her skin seemed lit from within. Fenris turned towards her, folding his arms over his chest while he observed her. Her expression was calm as she lifted her hands towards her chest, the light intensifying around the site of her injury. The light continued to grow brighter until, with a flash, it died. She sighed, her body slumping forward slightly as she lowered her hands to her lap and let her head hang forward. Hawke’s hair, dark and matted, fell around her face as her body seemed to give way to weariness. Finding himself struck by the sudden urge to brush back her hair from her face, combing it with his fingers, Fenris turned from her, glancing back towards the fire where the others sat and awaited the right time to express their ample relief to Hawke.

Fenris remained seated by the fire while the others rose in turns, going to her and sharing gentle words and warm, reassuring smiles. She looked tired, he thought, though she smiled when the others drew near to her. Fenris watched her, noticing the deep circles below her eyes and her slow, languid movements. He watched her carefully enough that, when Varric sat down beside him, Fenris hardly noticed. “She doesn’t intend to come with us, you know,” said Varric suddenly, drawing Fenris’ attention so abruptly that the elf started as if he’d just been slapped.

When the initial surprise of Varric’s company had passed, Fenris lifted one of his brows. “And I assume you have some reason for telling me this?” he asked coldly, carefully maintaining an air of intense disinterest in the matter.

Varric shrugged casually, seemingly not at all put off by Fenris’ tone. “I thought I might as well give you the opportunity to decide how you feel about that. You won’t have much longer to make up your mind, elf.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, dwarf,” Fenris snapped, raising from where he sat and glowering down at Varric, who seemed more or less impervious to Fenris’s hostility.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Varric. “But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Fenris scoffed loudly, glancing towards where Hawke had curled beside the saplings, her head pillowed on one of her arms and her eyes closed. After watching her for a moment and finding himself almost wistful, Fenris shook his head and grumbled something inarticulate about going off in search of more firewood. On that flimsy pretext, he skulked off into the woods to find some small shred of peace from the assumptions and judgments of Hawke’s companions.

The arrogance of the dwarf was infuriating. Varric thought that, somehow, he had gleaned enough of an understanding of Fenris’ situation with Hawke that he was entitled to offer his input. That was ludicrous. Even if the dwarf could claim some understanding, his advice was utterly without worth. Hawke had already told Fenris that it was her intention to divide from him. If the dwarf thought that this information would suddenly make Fenris start spouting out confessions of undying love and forgiveness, then he was sorely mistaken. The fact remained that Fenris was still not certain as to whether or not he would allow Hawke to carry on without him at her side. He huffed out a heavy sigh, kicking the side of a decaying log and wincing as a sliver of bark caught beneath his toenail.

Sitting down atop a large, flat stone, Fenris began to work the splinter out of his foot, fuming all the while. It wasn’t as simple as the dwarf seemed to believe. It wasn’t a matter of simply deciding what it was that he wanted and acting on it; he already had come to some fairly devastating realizations about what it was that he wanted. Reason, however, was entirely at odds with his desires. Fenris sighed heavily, turning his eyes up towards the leaves which trembled overhead. The wind was rising and, with it, the air was cooling dramatically. He shivered slightly and it occurred to him that he ought to just go back to the others; it was unlikely that Varric would pester him any further about Hawke. Still, he was reluctant to return. She would be there, after all, and the sensation of being in close proximity to her was always complex, to say the least. It had been a struggle not to sit beside her during these last hours. It had been a struggle to hold himself at a distance, watching as the others were free to approach her. He had envied them in those moments. He had envied Varric’s friendly ease as he spoke with Hawke. He had envied Merrill as she hugged her and he had envied Sebastian as he touched her shoulder and he had envied Aveline when she made Hawke smile in a way that almost looked genuine. He came near to hating them in those moments, because they allowed themselves a closeness with Hawke that he could not afford himself. Only a very great fool would allow himself intimacy with a creature like her; only a fool would even want such an intimacy.

He remained in the woods until the darkness amongst the trees was almost total. The cold brought on by the wind and by approaching night seeped down to his skin and, grudgingly, Fenris realized that he would soon have to return to the pleasant warmth of the campfire. She would be there, he knew. When he returned from the woods, she would likely look up with him with an expression of relief, having wondered where he had gone and if he would return. The flash of her imagined expression made his entrails twist. His own idiocy, it seemed, truly knew no bounds.

When he returned, Fenris kept himself from looking around the campfire for her face. Even so, he imagined how she would look upon seeing him as he wordlessly sat down beside the crackling flames. He remained still, his muscles tense, as he stared fixedly into the fire. All around him, the others spoke in hushed voices, trying to distract themselves from the horrors of the previous day by telling tales of light-hearted nonsense. Once or twice, Fenris heard the trill of female laughter or heard a soft voice interjecting into the conversation. But it was never her voice. He found his ears straining for that familiar, lilting sound, but he heard no trace of her. His brow furrowing, Fenris lifted his eyes and looked around the fire. She was not among them. He looked further, beyond the immediate circle of the fire’s warmth, and found that she was seated at the very edge of the fire’s glow, her body positioned almost amongst the shadows. While she sat beyond them, her friends chattered on without her, as if a conversation had any weight while she was absent from it. He imagined, in an instant, a lifetime of conversation in which she would play no part. A lifetime in which he would never again hear her voice.

Fenris rose suddenly from the fireside, ignoring the inquiring eyes that watched him as he made his way towards Hawke. She sat cross-legged, her back against the trunk of a tree, with her right hand resting on one her knee in front of her. In the dim golden glow of the campfire, she was staring at the bandages that he had wrapped over her hand and which she had left in place. As Fenris made his approach, she saw the flickering of his shadow and lifted her eyes towards him. While he took a seat beside her, she smiled slightly and nodded in silent acknowledgment of his presence.

For a moment, he said nothing, looking at her subdued expression and watching as the light of the fire deepened the already dramatic shadows on her face. “How does it feel?” he said at last, gesturing towards her hand.

She took a moment to consider his question and then, with a shrug, sighed, “Weird.” With a little smile playing around her lips, she glanced back at her bandaged hand. “It still feels like I should have fingers there. I keep trying to flex them, but I can’t.” She laughed gravely, shaking her head. “I’m actually surprised that nothing like this happened sooner. An impulsive mage who constantly runs to the front lines? I should have been hacked to pieces a hundred times over.”

He watched her face carefully. She was still smiling, with a brightness in her eyes that truly did look almost like amusement rather than self-pity. “It’s as if you have some sort of death wish,” he replied, attempting to keep his tone light.

With a cough of laughter, she looked back up at him, her smile spreading as a greater darkness encompassed her eyes. “It actually is quite like that,” she said coolly. Then, her smile diminishing and the grave expression of her eyes deepening, she added, “I don’t suppose you’d reconsider taking care of that for me?”

Fenris tilted his head to the side. “Would you like me to?” he asked, searching her eyes carefully.

She looked away, staring at the ground in front of her. Shifting awkwardly, she lifted her hand to brush back her hair from her face and then, realizing that she had tried to perform that automatic gesture with phantom fingers, she laughed again and let her hand fall to her lap. With her intact hand, she hid the stained bandages from sight. From where he sat, Fenris watched her gesture and watched as she bowed her head still lower and, chuckling intermittently under her breath, stared at where her hands were folded together. Slowly, he lifted his own hand and brushed the errant strands of hair behind her ear. Hawke closed her eyes, her perverse smile fading. “Thank you,” she murmured after an extended silence had spanned between them.

“It’s no bother.” His voice was low, his gaze never leaving her face though her eyes remained closed. Her lips trembled, turning down slightly at the corners, while he watched her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She swallowed and, when she opened her eyes, turning towards him, he saw that she’d just barely succeeded in holding back her tears.

“Have you spoken with the others?” she asked, her voice rough and low. “I heard that they’re planning to head north towards Antiva, but I’m sure they’d understand with you felt uneasy about going anywhere near Tevinter.” She cleared her throat, running the thumb of her left hand gently over the back of the right. “I’m sure that, if you talked to Aveline and Donnic, they would consider going down to Ferelden instead. That is, if you’d rather not travel alone. You might like Ferelden.” Smiling almost wistfully, as though the memory of her homeland had made her nostalgic, she added, “There is a lot of mud, which I know you hate, and the air really does smell a little bit like wet dog, but it’s lovely outside the cities. That might be nice.” Her eyebrows drawing together, she added in a whisper, speaking almost to herself, “A house somewhere in the countryside, a pretty wife, and dozens of plump, green-eyed children. If that’s what you wanted, anyway.” She was still smiling, he saw, though the sadness in her eyes was becoming increasingly evident.

He nodded his head slowly, frowning as if in serious contemplation of what she had just said. “That sounds very pleasant,” he said. She lifted her eyes to look at him, trying to gauge whether or not he was serious and failing to do so. Fenris kept his expression nearly blank, only lifting one of his eyebrows inquisitively as he added, “Though it does beg the question as to what you’ll be doing while I’m off having lots of fat children with some voluptuous farmer’s daughter.”

She shrugged, smiling crookedly as she felt her heart beat at a slightly accelerated rate. “I don’t know,” she replied evenly. Then, her expression brightening somewhat, she added, “Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about killing me. Which is still very much a viable option.” Her eyes hopeful, she held his gaze until he shook his head slowly from side to side. Sighing, she turned her head to look back over the foothills towards the darkness where Kirkwall still smoldered. “So I’ll just go somewhere,” she told him wearily. “Keep my head down, for once. Try to prevent myself from irreversibly destroying everything around me. Teach myself how to write with my left hand.” Illustratively, she wiggled her fingers.

He watched the slight undulations of her fingers and then looked up to her vague smile. “I could help you with that,” he suggested softly, his expression remaining as inscrutable as it had been throughout the evening. Hawke frowned, shaking her head and turning away from him.

“Please stop,” she said, her voice carrying traces of distress. “You keep… you keep saying these things about letting me stay with you. You keep offering and… you have to stop. You have to stop before I give an answer that we’d both regret.”

He couldn’t see her face as she stared resolutely away from him, but he guessed from the barely detectable quivering in her voice that she was near tears. Allowing himself to smile faintly, he murmured, “Would we?” He was rather glad that she wasn’t looking at him. He was only just able to disguise the warmth in his eyes before she turned back to him, her own expression having grown stern and almost angry.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” she said bitterly, though she kept her voice low. “Do you want me to tell you that love conquers all and that I’ll never do anything to hurt you again?” She shook her head, her eyes lowering to his chest instead of meeting his gaze. “I can’t tell you that,” she went on, her tone softening somewhat. “I’ll remember every day what I’ve done and I will keep trying to be a better person for every moment of my life. But I will fail. No matter how many times and in how many different ways I try, I will never stop being the person who sent you back into slavery because it was easier than fighting. I will never stop being the person who raped you because I thought that loving you somehow made up for all the awful things that I’ve done.” She sighed shakily, pinching her eyes shut. When she reopened them, looking back at him, he felt his heart thud out a few stuttering beats. “I will never stop being that person, Fenris,” Hawke told him, her voice sounding choked and forced. “You deserve better than that person. You can’t stay with me.”

Fenris shifted slightly towards her and she responded by leaning away from him, her eyes widening with mild alarm. “What if that was something I wanted?” he asked. Her eyes were so wide as he drew near to her and he could see that the proximity was causing her to shiver more visibly. Yet she pulled back away from him, though doing so was costing her visible effort.

“Why would you want that?” she asked incredulously.

There were a hundred reasons, all of them dancing on the tip of his tongue. Because she had come for him when it was the hardest thing to do. Because she had been kind and because she had been gentle when he had needed her to be. Because, when he remembered what she had done, he had never been able to fully join together the person she had been with the person she had become. Because the smell of her was comforting even after all that had passed and because she tasted sweet on his tongue. Because she loved him. She loved him with the same recklessness that she did everything and yet, when he had offered to stay with her, she had told him to go. Because she wanted what was best for him, even if that meant being apart. Because, no matter what she said to the contrary, he knew that she wasn’t the same. He couldn’t forgive her and he would never forget what she had been and what she had done. But he couldn’t let her go. Because he needed to see the person that she was becoming. In spite of everything, he didn’t want to live a life that she wouldn’t be a part of. Fenris shook his head, averting his gaze for a moment before looking back at her. “I don’t know,” he answered flatly. “I feel you beneath my skin and I can’t seem to claw you out.”

Hawke looked at him sadly, her eyes welling up with tears that she could no longer stave off. “Try,” she said as firmly as she could manage.

“I no longer wish to,” he replied, inching almost imperceptibly towards her. She did not back away this time, though she did begin to tremble more furiously while rogue tears began to wet her cheeks.

“Please try,” she pleaded, looking away once more.

Lightly, he placed his fingertips on her forearm. “No,” he murmured. Sliding his hand down over her arm, he gently clasped her intact hand and lifted it to his lips, softly kissing the inside of her wrist. He could feel her thundering heartbeat against his lips. “Do you really wish for me to go?” he asked, placing her hand back in her lap. She seemed incapable of voluntary movement then, remaining perfectly still aside from the continued quivering which seemed to be well beyond her control. After she had been silent for a long moment, still looking away from him, Fenris sighed heavily and reached out to turn her face towards his. Fenris furrowed his brow, surprised by how frightened she looked. With his thumb, he stroked her cheekbone, driven by the sudden impulse to comfort her.

“I just want you to be happy,” she choked out at last.

He heard himself laugh at her earnestness. “A lofty ambition, Hawke,” he replied as his hand slid into her hair. “But achievable, perhaps…with assistance.” He was startled by his own gentleness and, though he meant to remove his hand from the soft masses of her hair, he found that he had somehow managed to pull her closer to him. Looking down, she laughed with a touch of panic ringing in the sound. Her eyes flickered back towards him and then, slowly, she turned her head to the side, lightly pressing her lips to the heel of the hand that played with her hair. He felt his heart beating quickly, his fingers tightening around the loose waves of her hair. When she turned her gaze to him, she smiled tearfully, shaking her head.

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

“I’m well aware of that,” he said, finding that he was smiling as well. “And yet I remain at your side. I suppose there’s no helping it.” She laughed under her breath and it occurred to him just how close her face was to his own.

They were bathed in the golden glow of the fire, both of them caught in its warmth and its light while their shadows were thrown off towards the edge of the clearing. The darkness cast by their bodies played across the ground, blending together as the flames continued to dance. 


	34. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It made sense to end this story as it began. The epilogue is from Hawke’s POV. 
> 
> It is SUPER saccharine. If that’s not really your bag, it’s probably best not to read any further. You have been warned.

There are times, when the hours have worn well away, and the lights are low and the sounds outside have quieted, that I roll closer to you. The bed surrounds us, warm and soft and as I hoped it would be in the wilderness when there was nothing but hard stone and cold wind. I feel your breath falling gently over my face when I press against you, wrapping my arms over your bare shoulders and toying with your hair with the fingers I have left. Often, you sigh in your sleep and I smile because, when you shift nearer to me reflexively, I can see that you are smiling. In your sleep, it happens often. The memories and the fears and the hurt of all that has come before falls away and your lips turn upwards at the corners. If you could see how lovely you are in those moments, then you might blush. I blush, shy to be so close and so lucky and confronted with so much loveliness.

Bowing my head, I nuzzle against your shoulder and feel you wrap around me, waking as my hair tickles lightly against your chin. You laugh under your breath, the sound rumbling in your chest, and your arms are so warm around me. You’ve grown accustomed, I think, to this odd habit of mine. My nightly practice of inching across the mattress until my body is entirely flush with yours. I’m glad that the days of clothes are behind us; I’m glad to feel the smooth length of your body coming into contact with mine. Our thighs crushing together, our breath mingling, your hands gently brushing over the naked skin of my back. I love these moments. These moments alone when all is quiet and the lights have faded away.

You’re gentle, though I don’t know who has taught you such things. You were born, I suppose, with a sweetness that no one could take from you. Within you there was a sense, I think, of how you ought to love and be loved. That hands should be gentle and voices soft. You taught me these things that were not innate in me. You taught me to be tender with you and the value in kind words whispered while we’re close. You’re the first, you know. The first to find your way into my heart. The first I’ve held as something precious and dear. I never would have thought it, in the days before you took me as your own, but it was always meant to be you. I was always meant to be yours, though I never realized it.

We were meant to erase the violence inside one another. Well, not entirely. Never entirely. I can see in your eyes, from time to time, that you remember. That your memories have not yet faded; that the lingering effects of my actions continue to reverberate within you. In those times, when I see your muscles tense and I see you stare at me as though you cannot recognize me, I don’t look away. I know who I am. I know what I’ve done. I know how you’ve suffered and I can’t look away from you now. And you study my eyes, searching for the woman who betrayed you. And I am always relieved when I pass inspection. When you finally walk to me, lean forward, and kiss my cheek.

I don’t deserve you, I know, but you have chosen me. Every day, and with every time that you search my eyes, you are choosing me again. Every time, I know that I don’t deserve you. Every time, I am relieved. At night, sometimes, I wake up gasping from a dream in which you’ve left me again. And in my dream I feel the crushing weight of it—I remember the days when I loved you and you were away from me. Gone. You were right to go. You were foolish to return. I know this. But still, when I wake, I am grateful to find you here beside me. You know that I am selfish; you knew it when you chose me.

It’s because of this that I watch you, as your eyelids flutter in sleep and you snore slightly as you inhale with deep, slow breaths. I can’t believe you’re real—the curves of your face, the arch of your nose, the pores on your cheeks, the slight blush of pink across your lips—I can’t believe you could be real and with me and so beautiful. I can’t believe it until you hold me. I can’t believe it until you’re with me completely and inside me and whispering, “I am yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Hey, thank you so much. No one has ever really read my writing before and it actually is really gratifying that anyone took the time to read this. Even if you hated it, I still appreciate it. Thank you.   
> B) If you’re into it, I will be doing a sequel about the intervening years between the last chapter and the epilogue. It’ll be shorter and a lot less angsty… though obviously there will have to be some angst. Because… well, I love angst.  
> C) If you’re wondering what happened to Hawke’s dog… he’s alive. I didn’t feel like getting into that too much.


End file.
